UC-NRLF 


(V.  {\  ^'  t  !' 


TARTARlNOFTARASCOi 
TARTARINONTHEALP 


m\. 


DAUDET 


GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


Ca^ri^ht,  J3^^.  In^  ZUtiey,  Brorany  &  C 


Goupil-  &  Cf  Paris- 


:V 


•  •     •    •       Copyright,  1900, 

By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 

All  rights  reserved. 


i-\o. 


O  \^:>/r>  \     — 


Hnibersitg  ^ress: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON; 


FIRST  EPISODE. 

AT  TARASCON. 
I. 

The  garden  of  the  baobab. 

My  first  visit  to  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  remains  an 
unforgetable  date  in  my  life ;  it  is  a  dozen  or  fif- 
teen years  since  then,  but  I  remember  it  better 
than  yesterday.  The  intrepid  Tartarin  was  then 
Hving  at  the  entrance  to  the  town,  in  the  third 
house,  left-hand  side,  on  the  road  to  Avignon ;  a 
pretty  little  Tarasconese  villa,  garden  before,  bal- 
cony behind,  very  white  walls,  green  blinds,  and 
on  the  step  of  the  gate  a  brood  of  little  Savoyards 
playing  at  hop-scotch,  or  sleeping  in  the  blessed 
sun,  with  their  heads  on  their  shoe-blacking 
boxes. 

Outside,  the  house  looked  like  nothing  at  all. 

Never  could  I  have  thought  myself  before  the 
home  of  a  hero.     But  enter  —  coquin  de  sort!  .  . 

From  cellar  to  garret  the  whole  building  had  an 
heroic  air,  even  the  garden. 

I 


849302 


2  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Oh,  the  garden  of  Tartarin !  there  are  not  two 
like  it  in  all  Europe.  Not  one  tree  of  the  region, 
not  a  flower  of  France ;  nothing  but  exotic  plants, 
gum-trees,  cotton-trees,  bottle-gourds,  cocoanuts, 
mangoes,  cochineal-trees,  banana-trees,  palm-trees, 
a  baobab,' gaqtijses,  prickly  pears  from  Barbary,  till 
one  might  fancy  one's  self  in  Central  Africa,  ten 
thousand  leagues  from  Tarascon.  All  these,  be  it 
understood,  were  not  of  natural  size ;  the  cocoanut- 
trees  were  scarcely  larger  than  beet-roots,  and  the 
baobab  (arbos  gigantea,  tree  of  Senegal,  largest 
known  vegetable  product)  lived  at  ease  in  a 
mignonette  pot;  but  no  matter  for  that!  it  was 
very  pretty  to  the  eyes  of  Tarascon ;  and  the  peo- 
ple of  the  town,  admitted  on  Sundays  to  the  honour 
of  contemplating  the  baobab,  went  home  full  of 
admiration. 

Think  what  emotion  I  must  have  felt  that  first 
day  in  crossing  that  wondrous  garden !  .  .  But  it 
was  quite  another  thing  when  I  was  ushered  into 
the  study  of  the  hero. 

This  study,  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the  town, 
was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  garden,  evening  into 
it  on  a  level  with  the  baobab  by  a  glass  moor. 

Imagine  to  yourself  a  large  hall,  tapestried  from 
top  to  bottom  with  guns,  sabres,  the  weapons  of 
all  lands,  carbines,  rifles,  blunderbusses,  Corsican 
knives,  Catalan  knives,  revolving  knives,  dagger- 
knives,  Malay  krishes,  tomahawks,  Hottentot  clubs, 
Mexican  lassos,  and  I  know  not  what  all. 

Shining  above  them,  a  great  ferocious  sun  made 
the  steel  of  the  blades  and  the  muzzles  glitter,  as 


The  Garden  of  the  Baobab,  3 

if  to  make  your  flesh  creep  all  the  more.  .  .  It 
was  rather  reassuring,  however,  to  see  the  good 
air  of  order  and  cleanliness  that  reigned  through- 
out the  yataghanery.  All  things  were  in  place, 
ranged  in  line,  dusted,  ticketed  as  in  a  pharmacy ; 
here  and  there  a  little  notice,  in  neat  writing,  said : 

Poisoned  arrows  ;  do  not  touch! 
or:  — 

Loaded  weapons  ;  be  careful! 

Without  these  notices  I  should  not  have  dared 

to  enter. 

In  the  middle  of  the  study  was  a  round  table. 
On  the  table  a  flask  of  rum,  a  Turkish  tobacco- 
pouch.  Captain  Cook's  Travels,  the  novels  of  Feni- 
more  Cooper  and  Gustave  Aimard,  hunting  nar- 
ratives, bear-hunts,  elephant-hunts,  hunts  with 
falcons,  etc.  .  .  Before  this  table  sat  a  man  of 
forty  to  forty-five  years  of  age ;  short,  fat,  squat, 
ruddy,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  flannel  drawers, 
with  a  strong  short  beard  and  flaming  eyes;  in 
one  hand  he  held  a  book,  in  the  other  he  bran- 
dished an  enormous  pipe  with  a  metal  lid,  and, 
while  reading  I  know  not  what  stupendous  tale  of 
the  hunters  of  pelts,  he  made,  by  advancing  his 
lower  lip,  a  terrible  grimace,  which  gave  to  the 
visage  of  a  small  Tarasconese  proprietor  the  same 
air  of  innocent  ferocity  that  reigned  throughout 
his  dwelling. 

This  man  was  Tartarin,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 
the  intrepid,  the  great,  the  incomparable  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


II. 


General  coup  d^cEtl  cast  upon  the  worthy  town  of 
Tarascon.     The  Hunters  of  caps. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  am  telling  you, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  not  yet  the  Tartarin 
that  he  is  to-day,  the  great  Tartarin  of  Tarasr 
con,  so  popular  throughout  the  south  of  France. 
Nevertheless,  even  at  that  epoch,  he  was  already 
king  of  Tarascon. 

Let  me  tell  whence  that  royalty  came  to  him. 

You  must  know,  in  the  first  place,  that  every 
man  down  there  is  a  sportsman,  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest.  Hunting  is  the  passion  of  the 
Tarasconese ;  and  this  from  times  mythological 
when  La  Tarasque  played  the  mischief  in  the 
marshes  of  the  town,  and  the  Tarasconese  of 
those  days  formed  battues  against  her.  Good 
reason,  as  you  see,  for  their  passion. 

Consequently,  every  Sunday  morning  Tarascon 
takes  arms  and  issues  from  its  walls,  gun  to  shoul- 
der, game-bag  on  its  back,  with  a  turmoil  of  dogs, 
ferrets,  trumpets,  and  horns.  Superb  to  see.  Un- 
fortunately, game  is  lacking;  absolutely  lacking. 
However  stupid  wild  animals  may  be,  you  can  well 
believe  that  in  the  end  they  would  mistrust  that 
turmoil. 


The  Hunters  of  Caps,  5 

For  a  circuit  of  five  leagues  around  Tarascon 
burrows  are  empty,  nests  are  deserted.  Not  a 
blackbird,  not  a  quail,  not  the  least  little  rabbit,  nor 
so  much  as  a  snipe. 

And  yet  they  are  very  tempting,  those  Tarascon- 
ese  hillsides,  all  redolent  of  thyme  and  myrtle, 
lavender  and  rosemary;  and  those  fine  muscat 
grapes,  bursting  with  sugar,  in  serried  ranks  along 
the  Rhone,  are  devilishly  appetizing  also.  Yes ! 
but  there  is  always  a  Tarasconese  behind  them; 
and  in  the  kingdom  of  pelts  and  plumes  the  men 
of  Tarascon  are  very  ill-noted.  The  birds  of  pas- 
sage have  marked  a  great  cross  against  the  name 
of  that  town  in  their  time-tables,  and  when  the 
wild  ducks,  flying  south  toward  the  Camargue  in 
long  triangles,  perceive  from  afar  the  steeples  of 
the  town,  the  leader  cries  out,  very  loud,  "  There  's 
Tarascon  !  there  's  Tarascon  !  "  and  the  flock  makes 
a  crook  in  its  course. 

In  short,  as  to  game,  nothing  remains  in  the 
whole  region  but  one  old  scamp  of  a  hare,  escaped 
by  miraculous  means  from  the  Tarasconese  Septem- 
ber massacres,  who  obstinately  persists  in  living 
there.  That  hare  is  well  known  to  Tarascon.  They 
have  given  him  a  name.  He  is  called  "  Rapid." 
His  burrow  is  on  the  estate  of  M.  Bompard  (a  fact 
which  has,  by  the  bye,  doubled  or  even  trebled  the 
value  of  that  property),  but  no  one  yet  has  been 
able  to  bag  him. 

At  the  present  time  there  are  only  two  or  three 
fanatics  still  rabid  enough  to  hunt  him. 

The  rest  mourn  him,   and    **  Rapid "  has  long 


6  Tartarm  of  Tarasco7i, 

since  passed  into  the  state  of  a  local  superstition, 
though  the  Tarasconese  are  not  at  all  superstitious 
by  nature ;  in  fact,  they  eat  swallows  in  stews  — 
when  there  are  any. 

**  Ah,  9a !  "  you  will  say  to  me,  "  if  game  is  so 
scarce  in  Tarascon  what  do  those  Tarasconese 
hunters  do  of  a  Sunday  morning?" 

What  do  they  do  ? 

Hey !  mon  Dieu!  they  go  out  into  the  open 
country,  two  or  three  leagues  from  the  town.  There 
they  gather  in  little  groups  of  five  or  six,  stretch 
themselves  tranquilly  out  in  the  shade  of  a  quarry, 
an  old  wall,  an  olive-tree,  take  from  their  game- 
bags  a  good  bit  of  braised  beef,  raw  onions,  a 
saucissot^  a  few  anchovies,  and  begin  then  and 
there  an  interminable  repast,  washed  down  with 
one  of  those  delectable  Rhone  wines  that  make 
laughter  and  song. 

After  which,  being  well  ballasted,  up  they  get, 
whistle  to  the  dogs,  load  the  guns,  and  begin  the 
hunt.  That  is  to  say,  each  of  these  gentlemen 
takes  his  cap,  tosses  it  in  the  air  with  all  his 
strength,  and  fires  at  it  on  the  wing  with  a  5,  or  a 
6,  or  a  2  —  according  to  agreement. 

He  who  hits  his  cap  the  oftenest  is  hailed  king 
of  the  hunt,  and  returns  in  the  evening  triumphant 
to  Tarascon,  amid  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the 
blare  of  trumpets,  his  riddled  cap  on  the  muzzle  of 
his  gun. 

Useless  to  tell  you  that  a  great  business  in  hunt- 
ing-caps is  done  in  that  town.  Some  of  the  hat- 
makers  even  keep  torn  and  riddled  hats  for  the 


The  Hunters  of  Caps,  7 

clumsy ;  but  no  one  has  ever  been  known  to  buy 
them,  except  Bezuquet  the  apothecary.  It  is  dis- 
honourable. ^    *•*  ^'-l.v'! 

As  a  hunter  of  caps  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had 
not  his  equal.  Every  Sunday  morning  he  started 
forth  with  a  new  cap,  every  Sunday  evening  he 
returned  with  a  ragged  one.  The  garrets  of  the 
little  house  of  the  baobab  were  full  of  these  glori- 
ous trophies.  Thus  the  Tarasconese,  one  and  all, 
considered  him  their  leader,  and  as  Tartarin  knew 
to  its  depths  the  sportsman's  code,  and  had  read 
all  treatises,  all  manuals  of  all  possible  hunts,  from 
the  hunt  of  the  cap  to  the  hunt  of  the  Burmese 
tiger,  his  compatriots  had  made  him  their  arbiter 
and  judge  of  venery,  and  took  him  as  their  umpire 
in  all  their  disputations. 

Every  day,  from  three  to  four,  at  the  shop  of  the 
gunsmith  Costecalde,  could  be  seen  a  stout  man, 
grave,  a  pipe  between  his  teeth,  seated  in  a  green 
leather  arm-chair,  in  the  midst  of  a  shopful  of  cap- 
hunters,  all  standing  and  squabbling.  This  was 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  delivering  judgment.  A 
Nimrod  lined  with  Solomon. 


8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


III. 

Nan  i    Nan  /    Nan  / 

Continuation  of  the  general  coup  d''osil  cast  upon 

the  good  town  of  Tarascon. 

To  a  passion  for  sport  the  stalwart  Tarasconese 
race  added  another  passion;  that  of  romantic 
song.  The  amount  of  romantic  poesy  consumed 
in  that  small  region  is  not  to  be  beheved.  All 
the  aged  sentimentalities  yellowing  in  the  oldest 
receptacles  will  be  found  at  Tarascon  in  full  youth 
and  glory.  They  are  all  there,  all.  Every  family 
has  its  own,  and  the  whole  town  knows  it.  They 
know,  for  example,  that  that  of  the  apothecary 
B6zuquet  is :  — 

"  Thou !  purest  star  whom  I  adore.'' 

That  of  the  gunsmith  Costecalde :  — 

"  Wilt  thou  come  to  the  land  of  the  flat-bottomed  boats  ?  " 

That  of  the  receiver  of  registrations :  • — 

"  If  I  were  invisible,  none  could  see  me." 

(Comic  song.') 

And  so  on,  throughout  Tarascon.  Two  or  three 
times  a  week  they  meet  at  their  several  houses  and 
sing  them  to  one  another.  The  singular  thing  is 
that  these  songs  are  always  the  same,  and  that,  long 


The  Good  Town  of  Tarascon,  9 

as  the  worthy  Tarasconese  have  sung  them,  they 
have  no  desire  for  change.  They  bequeath  them 
in  famiHes,  from  father  to  son,  and  no  one  meddles 
with  them;  those  songs  are  sacred.  Never  are 
they  even  borrowed.  Never  would  the  idea  come 
to  a  Costecalde  to  sing  the  song  of  a  Bezuquet,  nor 
to  a  Bezuquet  to  sing  that  of  a  Costecalde.  And 
yet,  as  you  can  well  believe,  they  must  know  them 
after  hearing  them  sung  for  forty  years.  But  no  ! 
each  keeps  his  own,  and  all  are  content. 

In  song  as  in  caps,  the  first  in  the  town  was  still 
Tartarin.  His  superiority  over  his  fellow-citizens 
consisted  in  this  :  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  no  song 
of  his  own.     He  had  them  all. 

All! 

Only,  it  took  the  devil  and  all  to  make  him  sing 
them.  Retiring  early  from  mere  salon  successes, 
the  Tarasconese  hero  much  preferred  to  plunge 
into  his  sporting  books  or  pass  his  evening  at  the 
club,  to  playing  swain  at  a  piano  from  Nimes,  be- 
tween two  Tarasconese  wax  candles.  Such  musi- 
cal parades  he  thought  beneath  him.  Sometimes, 
however,  when  there  was  music  at  Bezuquet's  phar- 
macy, he  would  drop  in,  as  if  by  chance,  and,  after 
getting  himself  much  entreated,  would  consent  to 
sing  the  great  duet  in  "  Robert  le  Diable  "  with 
Madame  Bezuquet  mbre.  .  .  He  who  never  heard 
that  has  heard  nothing.  .  .  As  for  me,  if  I  should 
live  a  hundred  years  I  should  all  my  life  see  the 
great  Tartarin  approaching  the  piano  with  solemn 
step,  resting  his  elbows  upon  it,  making  his  grimace, 
and  —  beneath  the  green  reflection  of  the  bottles  in 


lo  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

the  window  —  endeavouring  to  give  to  his  worthy 
face  the  satanic  and  savage  expression  of  Robert 
le  Diable.  Scarcely  had  he  taken  position  before 
the  whole  salon  quivered ;  it  was  felt  that  some- 
thing grand  was  about  to  occur.  Then,  after  a 
silence,  Madame  Bezuquet  m^re^  accompanying 
herself,  began :  — 

"  Robert !  thou  I  love, 
Who  hast  my  faith, 
Thou  see'st  my  terror  {repeat')^ 
Mercy  for  thee ! 
Mercy  for  me ! " 

Then  in  a  low  voice :  "  Now  you,  Tartarin ;  " 
and  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  arm  extended,  fist 
clenched,  nostril  quivering,  said  three  times  in  a 
formidable  voice,  which  rolled  like  thunder  through 
the  bowels  of  the  piano :  "  Non !  .  .  non !  .  . 
non !  .  ."  pronounced  by  the  worthy  Southerner : 
"  Nan  !  .  .  nan  !  .  .  nan  !  .  ."  On  which  Madame 
Bezuquet  mere  repeated  :  — 

"  Mercy  for  thee ! 
Mercy  for  me ! " 

"  Nan !  .  .  nan !  .  .  nan  !  .  ."  roared  Tartarin,  finer 
than  ever,  and  matters  stopped  there.  .  .  It  was  not 
long,  as  you  see,  but  so  well  ejaculated,  so  well 
simulated,  so  diabohcal,  that  a  shudder  of  terror 
ran  through  the  pharmacy,  and  they  made  him 
begin  his :  **  Nan !  .  .  nan !  .  ."  over  again,  four  or 
five  times. 

After    which    Tartarin    mopped    his   forehead, 


The  Good  Town  of  Tarascon.        1 1 

smiled  at  the  ladies,  winked  at  the  men,  and,  retir- 
ing on  his  laurels,  went  off  to  the  club  to  remark 
with  a  careless  air :  *'  I  have  just  been  singing  the 
duet  in  Robert  le  Diable  at  the  Bezuquets'." 
And  the  best  of  it  was,  he  believed  it. 


12  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


IV. 

They/// 

It  was  to  all  these  different  talents  that  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  owed  his  high  situation  in  the  town. 

At  any  rate,  it  is  a  positive  thing  that  that  devil 
of  a  man  had  known  how  to  captivate  everybody. 

The  army  was  for  Tartarin  —  in  Tarascon. 
The  brave  Commander  Bravida,  captain  of  equip- 
ment, retired,  said  of  him :  "  He  's  a  lapin  [deter- 
mined fellow,  army  term] ;  "  and  you  may  well 
think  the  commander  was  knowing  in  lapinSy  hav- 
ing clothed  so  many  of  them. 

The  magistracy  was  for  Tartarin.  Two  or  three 
times  in  open  court  the  old  judge  Ladeveze  had 
said,  speaking  of  him  :  — 

**  There  's  a  man  of  spirit !  " 

And,  finally,  the  populace  was  for  Tartarin. 
His  sturdy  make,  his  bearing,  his  air,  that  air  of  a 
trumpeter's  horse  that  fears  no  noises,  his  reputa- 
tion of  a  hero,  which  came  from  nobody  knows 
where,  certain  distributions  of  two-sous  pieces,  and 
pats  on  the  head  to  the  little  shoe-blacks  sprawling 
at  his  gate,  had  made  him  the  Lord  Seymour  of 
the  region,  the  King  of  the  Tarasconese  markets. 
On  the  quays,  of  a  Sunday  evening,  when  Tartarin 
returned  from  the  chase,  his  cap  on  the  muzzle  of 


They/!/  13 

his  gun,  and  well-girthed  in  his  fustian  jacket,  the 
porters  of  the  Rhone  saluted  him,  full  of  respect, 
showing  to  one  another  with  a  clip  of  the  eye  the 
gigantic  biceps  that  rolled  upon  his  arm,  and  say- 
ing, in  tones  of  admiration :  "  He 's  strong,  he  is  ! 
he  has  double  musclesJ' 

Double  muscles  ! 

It  is  only  in  Tarascon  that  you  can  hear  things 
like  that. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  with  his  numerous  tal- 
ents, double  muscles,  popular  favour,  and  the 
esteem,  so  precious,  of  the  brave  Commander 
Bravida,  retired  captain  of  equipment,  Tartarin 
was  not  happy ;  that  life  of  a  small  town  weighed 
upon  him,  smothered  him.  The  great  man  of 
Tarascon  was  bored  at  Tarascon.  The  fact  is,  that 
for  a  nature  so  heroic  as  his,  for  a  soul  so  adven- 
turous and  ardent,  which  dreamed  of  battlesj, splen- 
did hunts,  sands  of  the  desert,  rambles  on  the 
pampas,  hurricanes  and  typhoons,  to  spend  his 
Sundays  in  a  battue  of  caps  and  the  rest  of  his 
days  in  laying  down  the  law  at  the  gunsmith's  shop 
was  really  nothing,  nothing  at  all !  .  .  Poor  dear 
great  man  !  It  was  enough,  in  course  of  time,  to 
make  him  die  of  consumption. 

In  vain  —  to  enlarge  his  horizons  and  forget  for 
a  moment  the  club  and  the  market-place  —  in  vain 
did  he  surround  himself  with  baobabs  and  other 
tropical  vegetations;  in  vain  did  he  heap  up 
weapons  upon  weapons,  Malay  krishes  on  Malay 
krishes ;  in  vain  did  he  stuff  -his  mind  with  ro- 
mantic reading,  striving,  like  the   immortal  Don 


14  Tartar  in  of  Tarascon. 

Quixote,  to  wrench  himself  by  the  vigour  of  his 
dream  from  the  claws  of  a  pitiless  reality.  .  .  Alas  ! 
all  that  he  did  to  slake  his  thirst  for  adventure  only 
increased  it.  The  sight  of  his  weapons  kept  him 
in  a  state  of  perpetual  wrath  and  excitement.  His 
rifles,  his  arrows,  his  lassos  cried  to  him :  "  Battle  ! 
battle !  battle ! "  Through  the  branches  of  his 
baobab  the  wind  of  mighty  travels  whistled  and 
gave  him  evil  counsels,  and,  to  cap  it  all,  Gustave 
Aimard,  Fenimore  Cooper !  .  . 

Ah !  on  those  heavy  summer  afternoons,  when 
he  was  alone  in  the  midst  of  his  blades,  how  many 
a  time  did  Tartarin  rise  up  roaring,  and,  casting 
away  his  book,  precipitate  himself  upon  that  wall 
to  snatch  down  a  panoply ! 

The  poor  man  forgot  he  was  at  home  in  Taras- 
con, with  a  foulard  on  his  head  and  flannel  draw- 
ers around  his  loins  ;  he  put  his  reading  into  action, 
and,  exciting  himself  more  and  more  by  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  he  cried  aloud,  brandishing  an 
axe  or  a  tomahawk :  — 

"  Come  on  !  .  .     They  come  !  .  .  " 

They!     Who,  Theyf 

Tartarin  did  not  very  well  know  himself.  They  ! 
Why,  all  who  attack,  all  who  combat,  all  who  bite, 
all  who  claw,  all  who  scalp,  all  who  roar.  .  .  They  ! 
Why,  the  Indian  Sioux  dancing  their  war  dance 
round  the  stake  to  which  the  white  man  is  bound. 

'T  was  the  grisly  bear  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
licking  himself  with  his  bloody  tongue.  'T  was 
the  Bedouin  of  the  desert,  the  Malay  pirate,  the 
bandit  of  the  Abruzzi.  .  .     They  !  in  short,  't  was 


They!!!  15 

they !  that  is  to  say,  war,  travel,  adventures, 
glory. 

But  alas !  they  were  summoned  in  vain  by  the 
intrepid  Tarasconese;  in  vain  were  they  defied, 
they  came  not.  .  .  Pecair^  i  what  could  they  have 
found  to  do  in  Tarascon? 

Nevertheless,  they  were  always  expected  by 
Tartarin ;  especially  in  the  evening  when  he  went 
to  the  club. 


1 6  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


V. 

When  Tartarin  went  to  the  club. 

The  Knight  Templar  preparing  to  make  a  sortie 
against  the  besieging  Infidel,  the  Chinese  tiger 
equipping  himself  for  battle,  the  Comanche  war- 
rior entering  the  war-path,  were  as  nought  com- 
pared with  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  arming  himself 
cap-a-pie  to  go  to  the  club  at  nine  in  the  evening 
—  one  hour  after  the  bugles  had  sounded  tattoo. 

''  Prepare  for  action  !  "  as  the  sailors  say. 

In  his  left  hand  Tartarin  took  a  knuckle-duster 
with  iron  points ;  in  his  right  hand  a  sword-cane ; 
in  his  left-hand  pocket  was  a  tomahawk;  in  the 
right-hand  pocket  a  revolver.  On  his  breast,  be- 
tween cloth  and  flannel,  a  Malay  krish.  But  never 
a  poisoned  arrow ;  such  weapons  are  too  disloyal !  . . 

Before  starting,  in  the  silence  and  shade  of  his 
study,  he  practised  for  a  moment;  parrying,  let- 
ting fly  at  the  wall,  exercising  his  muscles.  Then 
he  took  his  latch-key,  and  crossed  the  garden 
gravely,  not  hurrying  —  English  fashion,  messieurs, 
English  fashion  ;  that  is  true  courage.  At  the  end 
of  the  garden  he  unlocked  the  iron  gate ;  then  he 
opened  it  suddenly,  violently,  so  that  it  swung 
back  rapidly  outside,  against  the  wall.  .  .  If  they 
had  been  behind  it,  think  what  marmalade  !  Un- 
fortunately, they  were  not  behind  it. 


When   Tartarin  went  to  the  Club,     17 

The  gate  open,  Tartarin  went  out,  cast  a  rapid 
glance  to  right  and  left,  turned  round,  double- 
locked  the  gate  behind  him,  and  then,  forward ! 

On  the  road  to  Avignon,  not  a  cat  Gates 
closed,  windows  darkened.  All  was  black.  Here 
and  there  a  street-lamp  blinked  through  the  river 
fog.  .  . 

Lofty  and  calm,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  advanced 
into  the  night;  making  his  boot-heels  ring  in 
rhythm,  and  striking  sparks  from  the  pavement 
with  the  iron  tip  of  his  cane.  Boulevards,  wide 
streets,  or  alleys,  he  was  careful  to  keep  to  the 
middle  of  the  road  ;  excellent  measure  of  precau- 
tion, which  enables  you  to  see  an  approaching 
danger,  and  also  to  avoid  what  is  apt,  at  night,  in 
the  streets  of  Tarascon,  to  fall  from  the  windows. 
In  seeing  him  thus  prudent,  do  not  think  for  a 
moment  that  Tartarin  was  afraid.  .  .  No !  he  was 
only  careful. 

The  best  proof  that  Tartarin  was  not  afraid  is 
that,  instead  of  going  to  the  club  by  the  public 
promenade,  he  went  through  the  town ;  that  is,  by 
the  longest  and  darkest  way,  through  a  nest  of 
villanous  little  streets,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
Rhone  is  seen  to  glitter  ominously.  The  poor 
man  always  hoped  that  in  passing  some  angle  of 
these  cut-throat  alleys  they  would  spring  from  the 
shadow  and  fall  upon  his  back.  Had  they  done 
so,  they  would  have  been  well  received,  I  '11  ans- 
wer for  it.  .  .  But  alas !  by  the  derision  of  fate, 
never,  eternally  never,  did  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
have  even  the  chance  of  a  dangerous  encounter. 

2 


1 8  Tartarhi  of  Tarascon. 

Not  a  dog.  Not  so  much  as  a  drunken  man. 
Nothing ! 

Occasionally,  however,  a  false  alarm.  A  sound 
of  steps  and  smothered  voices.  "  Attention !  " 
said  Tartarin  to  himself;  and  he  stood  stock-still, 
planted  on  the  ground,  scrutinizing  the  shadows, 
scenting  the  wind,  putting  his  ear,  Indian  fashion, 
to  the  earth.  .  .  The  steps  approached.  The  voices 
grew  distinct.  .  .  Doubt  was  at  an  end.  They  were 
coming.  They  came.  Tartarin,  his  eye  flaming, 
his  chest  heaving,  was  gathering  himself  together, 
like  a  jaguar,  prepared  to  bound  while  uttering 
his  war-cry  .  .  .  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  from  the 
bosom  of  the  darkness  came  virtuous  Tarasconese 
voices,  calling  to  him,  tranquilly:  "Hey,  hey! 
Tartarin,  good-night,  Tartarin." 

Maledictions  !  't  was  B6zuquet,  with  his  family, 
on  the  way  home  after  singing  his  at  Costecalde's. 
"  Good-night !  good-night !  "  growled  Tartarin,  furi- 
ous at  the  mistake ;  then,  savage,  with  uplifted 
cane  he  plunged  into  the  darkness. 

Reaching  the  street  of  his  club,  the  intrepid 
Tartarin  waited  a  moment,  walking  up  and  down 
before  he  entered.  .  .  At  last,weary  of  waiting,  and 
certain  now  that  they  would  not  show  themselves, 
he  cast  a  last  look  of  defiance  into  the  shades,  and 
muttered  angrily:  "Nothing!  .  .  nothing!  .  .  Ever- 
lastingly nothing !  .  ." 

Thereupon  the  brave  man  entered  the  club  and 
played  his  besique  with  Commander  Bravida. 


The  two  Tarlartus.  19 


VL 

The  two  Tartarins, 

With  this  mania  for  adventure,  this  need  of 
strong  emotions,  this  passion  for  travel,  for  roam- 
ing, this  devil  at  grass,  how  the  deuce  was  it  that 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  never  left  Tarascon? 

For  that  is  a  fact.  Until  he  was  forty-five  years 
old  the  intrepid  Tartarin  had  never  once  slept  out 
of  his  town.  He  had  not  even  made  the  famous 
journey  to  Marseilles  which  every  good  Provencal 
owes  to  himself  on  attaining  his  majority.  It  is 
doubtful  if  he  knew  Beaucaire;  and  yet  Beaucaire 
is  not  very  far  from  Tarascon,  for  there  is  only  the 
bridge  to  cross.  Unfortunately,  that  bridge  has  so 
often  been  swept  away  by  hurricanes ;  it  is  so  long, 
so  frail,  the  Rhone  is  so  wide  just  there,  that  —  well, 
well !  you  understand.  .  .  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  pre- 
ferred terra  firma. 

The  fact  is,  it  must  now  be  owned  to  you,  that 
there  were  in  our  hero  two  very  distinct  natures. 
*^I  find  two  men  within  me,"  said  a  Father  of  the 
Church  —  I  do  not  remember  which.  It  was  true 
of  Tartarin,  who  bore  within  him  the  soul  of  a  Don 
Quixote;  the  same  chivalric  impulse,  the  same 
heroic  ideal,  the  same  passion  for  the  romantic 
and  the  grandiose ;  but,  unfortunately,  he  had  not 


20  Tartari7i  of  Tarascon, 

the  body  of  the  famous  hidalgo ;  that  thin  and 
bony  body,  that  pretext  of  a  body,  on  which  ma- 
terial life  could  get  no  grip ;  a  body  capable  of 
sitting  up  for  twenty  nights  without  unbuckling  its 
cuirass,  and  of  going  forty  kours  on  a  handful  of 
rice.  .  .  Tartarin's  body,  on  the  contrary,  was  a 
good  fellow  of  a  body,  very  fat,  very  heavy,  very 
sensual,  very  luxurious,  very  exacting,  full  of  bour- 
geois appetites  and  domestic  requirements,  tfie 
short  and  pot-bellied  body  on  paws  of  the  immor- 
tal Sancho  Panza. 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  in  the  same 
man  !  you  understand  what  a  household  that  must 
have  made  !  what  struggles  !  what  wrenchings  !  .  . 

Oh,  the  fine  dialogue  that  a  Lucian  or  Saint-Evre- 
mond  could  write !  a  dialogue  between  the  two 
Tartarins,  Tartarin-Quixote  and  Tartarin-Sancho ! 
Tartarin-Quixote  inspired  by  the  tales  of  Gustave 
Aimard  and  crying  aloud :  "  I  go  !  "  Tartarin-San- 
cho, thinking  only  of  his  rheumatism,  and  saying : 
*'  I  stay." 

TaKTARIH-<JuTXOTE;  all  enthusiasm. 
Cover  thyself  with  glory,  Tartarin. 

Tartarin-Sancho,  calmly. 
Cover  thyself  with  flannel,  Tartarin. 

Tartarin-Quixote,  more  and  more  enthusiastic. 

Oh,  the  fine  rifles  !  the  double-barrelled  rifles  ! 
Oh,  the  daggers,  the  lassos,  the  moccasins ! 


The  two  Tartarins.  21 

Tartarin-Sancho,  more  calmly  still. 

Oh,  those  knitted  waistcoats !  those  good  warm 
knee-wraps  !  those  excellent  caps  with  ear-pads  ! 

Tartarin- Quixote,  beside  himself. 
An.axe  !  an  axe !  bring  me  an  axe ! 

Tartarin-Sancho,  ringing  for  the  maid. 
Jeannette,  my  chocolate. 

Whereupon  Jeannette  appears  with  excellent 
chocolate,  hot,  foamy,  perfumed,  and  a  certain 
succulent  toast  made  of  anise-seed  bread,  which 
cause  a  smile  on  the  face  of  Tartarin-Sancho  while 
they  stifle  the  cries  of  Tartarin-Quixote. 

That  is  how  it  happened  that  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con  had  never  left  Tarascon. 


22  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


VII. 

Europeans  at  Shanghai. 

Higher  Commerce.     Tartars. 

Can  it  be  that  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  is  an  impostor  f 

Once,  however,  Tartarin  came  near  departing  — 
departing  on  a  great  journey. 

The  three  brothers  Garcio-Camus,  Tarasconese 
persons  who  had  settled  at  Shanghai,  offered  him 
the  management  of  one  of  their  counting-rooms 
over  there.  That,  indeed,  was  the  very  Hfe  that 
would  have  suited  him.  Business  of  importance ; 
an  army  of  clerks  to  govern ;  relations  with  Rus- 
sia, Persia,  Turkey  in  Asia,  —  in  short,  the  Higher 
Commerce. 

In  the  mouth  of  Tartarin  those  words,  "  Higher 
Commerce,"  revealed  to  you  heights !  .  . 

The  house  of  Garcio-Camus  had,  moreover,  this 
advantage :  at  times  it  was  threatened  with  a  visit 
from  Tartars.  Then,  quick !  the  doors  were 
closed.  All  the  clerks  seized  weapons,  the  con- 
sular flag  was  hoisted,  and  pan !  pan  !  through  the 
windows  at  the  Tartars. 

I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  with  what  enthusiasm 
Tartarin-Quixote  jumped  at  the  proposition.  Un- 
happily, Tartarin-Sancho  did  not  hear  of  it  with 
the  same  ear,  and,  as  he  was  the  stronger,  the  mat- 


Europeans  at  Shanghai.  23 

tcr  could  not  be  arranged.  In  the  town  of  Taras- 
con  much  was  said  about  it:  "Will  he  go?" 
"Will  he  not  go?"  "I  bet  yes."  "I  bet  no." 
'T  was  an  event.  .  .T^In  the  end,  Tartarin  did  not  go. 
Still,  it  was  a  tale  that  did  him  much  honour.  To 
have  failed  to  go  to  Shanghai,  or  to  have  gone, 
proved  to  be  all  the  same  for  Tartarin.  By  dint 
of  talking  about  that  journey,  people  ended  by 
beUeving  he  had  returned  from  it;  so  that  in  the 
evenings,  at  the  club,  all  those  gentlemen  asked 
him  for  information  about  the  life  in  Shanghai,  its 
manners  and  morals,  the  climate,  opium,  and 
Higher  Commerce. 

Tartarin,  very  well  informed,  gave  with  a  good 
grace  the  details  demanded ;  so  that  in  course  of 
time  the  worthy  man  was  not  very  sure  himself 
that  he  had  not  been  to  Shanghai ;  in  fact,  after 
relating  for  the  hundredth  time  a  Tartar  raid,  he 
said,  quite  naturally :  "  I  then  armed  all  the  clerks, 
hoisted  the  consular  flag,  and  pan  ]  pan !  through 
the  windows  at  the  Tartars."  Hearing  that,  the 
club  quivered.  .  . 

"But,  then,"  you  say,  "your  Tartarin  was  a 
shocking  liar." 

No  !  a  thousand  times  no  !  Tartarin  was  not  a 
liar  — 

"  But  he  must  have  known  he  did  not  go  to 
Shanghai ! " 

Yes,  no  doubt  he  knew  it.     Only  .  .  .        yX^fth" 

Only  —  now  listen  to  this.  It  is  time  ta-€ome 
to  an  understanding  once  for  all  about  that  reputa- 
tion for  lying  which  the  men  of  the  North  have 


24  Tartari7i  of  Tarascon. 

put  upon  Southerners.  There  are  no  liars  in  the 
South,  neither  at  Marseilles,  nor  Nimes,  nor  Tou- 
louse, nor  Tarascon.  The  man  of  the  South  does 
not  lie,  he  deceives  himself.  He  does  not  always 
tell  the  truth,  but  he  thinks  he  does.  .  .  A  lie  in 
him  is  not  a  lie,  it  is  a  species  of  mirage.  .  . 

Yes,  mirage.  .  .  In  order  to  understand  me  per- 
fectly, go  to  the  South,  and  you  will  see.  You 
will  see  that  devil  of  a  land  where  the  sun  trans- 
figures everything  and  makes  it  grander  than 
nature.  You  will  see  those  little  hills  of  Provence 
that  are  no  higher  than  the  heights  of  Montmartre,^ 
but  they  will  seem  to  you  gigantic.  You  will  see 
that  Maison-Carree  at  Nimes  —  a  Httle  gem  of  a 
doll's  house  —  and  you  will  think  it  grander  than 
Notre-Dame.  You  will  see.  .  .  Ha !  the  sole  liar 
in  the  South  (if  there  is  one)  is  the  sun.  .  .  All 
that  he  touches  he  exaggerates.  .  .  What  was 
Sparta  in  the  days  of  its  splendour?  A  straggHng 
village.  .  .  What  was  Athens?  At  the  most  a 
sub-prefecture  .  .  .  and  yet  in  history  they  appear 
to  us  enormous  cities.  That  is  what  the  sun  has 
made  them. 

After  that,  will  you  feel  surprised  that  the  same 
sun,  falling  on  Tarascon,  should  have  made  of 
a  retired  captain  of  equipment  like  Bravida  the 
brave  Commander  Bravida,  out  of  a  turnip  a  bao- 
bab, out  of  a  man  who  failed  to  go  to  Shanghai  a 
man  who  had  been  there? 


TJie  Menagerie  Mitairie,  25 


VIII. 

The  Menagerie  Mitaine. 
A  lion  of  the  Atlas  in  Tarascon. 
Terrible  and  solemn  interview. 

And  now  that  we  have  shown  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con as  he  was  in  private  life,  before  fame  had  kissed 
his  brow  and  crowned  it  with  the  laurel  of  cen- 
turies, now  that  we  have  pictured  that  heroic  life 
iivits  modest  environment,  in  its  joys,  its  sorrows, 
its  dreams,  its  hopes,  let  us  hasten  to  reach  the 
grand  pages  of  his  history,  and  the  singular  event 
thj^t  was  fated  to  give  wings  to  his  incomparable 
destiny. 

'Twas  evening,  in  the  shop  of  the  gunsmith 
Costecalde.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  in  the  act 
of  explaining  to  certain  amateurs  the  proper  ma- 
nipulation of  a  needle-gun,  then  in  all  its  novelty. 
Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  a  cap-hunter  pre- 
cipitated himself,  breathless,  into  the  shop,  crying 
out :  "  A  lion  1  . .  a  lion  !  .  /'  Stupor,  terror,  tumult, 
jostling.  Tartarin  fixed  bayonet.  Costecalde  ran 
to  lock  the  door.  The  hunter  was  surrounded, 
questioned,  pressed ;  and  this  was  what  they 
learned :  the  Menagerie  Mitaine,  returning  from 
the  fair  at  Beaucaire,  had  consented  to  halt  for  a 
few  days  at  Tarascon,  and  had  just  installed  itself 


26  Tartariii  of  Tarascon, 

on  the  Place  du  Chateau,  with  a  mass  of  boas, 
phocas,  crocodiles,  and  —  a  magnificent  lion  of  the 
Atlas. 

A  lion  of  the  Atlas  in  Tarascon  !  Never  within 
the  memory  of  man  had  such  a  thing  been  seen 
before.  How  proudly  did  our  brave  sportsmen  of 
caps  turn  their  eyes  to  one  another !  What  gleams 
upon  their  manly  faces  in  the  darkest  corner  of 
that  shop  of  Costecalde's.  What  graspings  of  the 
hands  were  silently  exchanged !  The  emotion 
was  so  great,  so  unexpected  that  no  one  could  find 
a  word  to  say.  .  . 

Not  even  Tartarin.  Pale  and  quivering,  the 
needle-gun  still  in  his  hand,  he  stood,  reflecting, 
before  the  counter.  A  Hon  of  the  Atlas,  there,  close 
by,  not  two  steps  off !  A  lion  !  in  other  words,  the 
heroic  and  ferocious  animal  par  excellence^  the 
king  of  wild  beasts,  the  game  of  his  dreams; 
the  first  object,  as  one  might  say,  of  that  ideal 
troop  which  played  such  splendid  dramas  in  his 
fancy. 

A  lion,  ye  gods  !  .  . 

And  a  lion  of  the  Atlas  ! !  T  was  more  than  the 
great  Tartarin  could  bear.  .  . 

A  rush  of  blood  flew  suddenly  to  his  face. 

His  eyes  flamed.  With  a  convulsive  gesture  he 
flung  the  needle-gun  upon  his  shoulder  and  turn- 
ing to  the  brave  Commander  Bravida,  retired  cap- 
tain of  equipment,  he  said  to  him,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder :   *'  Let  us  go,  commander,  and  see  THAT." 

"  Hey  !  but  .  .  .  hey !  .  .  My  gun,  my  needle- 
gun,  you   are  taking  with  you,"  objected  timidly 


The  Menagerie  Mitaine,  27 

the  prudent  Costecalde.  But  Tartarin  was  already 
in  the  street,  and  behind  him  were  the  cap-hunters, 
proudly  keeping  step. 

When  they  reached  the  menagerie  a  crowd  had 
already  collected.  Tarascon,  race  heroic,  too 
long  deprived  of  sensations  and  sights,  had  rushed 
to  the  barrack  Mitaine  and  taken  it  by  storm. 
Consequently,  the  stout  Madame  Mitaine  was  well 
content.  .  .  Attired  in  Kabylese  costume,  arms 
bare  to  the  elbow,  iron  bracelets  round  her  ankles, 
a  whip  in  one  hand,  a  live  fowl  (though  plucked) 
in  the  other,  that  illustrious  dame  did  the  honours 
of  the  tent  to  the  worthy  Tarasconese  burghers ;  and 
as  she,  too,  had  double  muscles^  her  success  was 
almost  as  great  as  that  of  her  animals. 

The  entrance  of  Tartarin,  the  needle-gun  upon 
his  shoulder,  cast  a  chill  upon  the  scene. 

All  these  worthy  Tarasconese,  walking  about 
most  tranquilly  before  the  cages,  without  weapons, 
without  fear,  without  so  much  as  the  smallest  idea  of 
danger,  felt  a  natural  sense  of  terror  on  seeing  the 
great  Tartarin  enter  that  tent  with  his  formidable 
engine  of  war.  Surely  there  must  be  something  to 
fear,  since  he,  that  hero  ...  In  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  the  space  before  the  cages  was  left  vacant.  The 
children  screamed  with  fear ;  the  ladies  looked  at 
the  door ;  Bezuquet,  the  apothecary,  slipped  out, 
muttering  the  remark  that  he  would  fetch  his 
gun.  .  . 

Little  by  little,  however,  Tartarin's  attitude  re- 
assured the  crowd.  Calm,  his  head  held  high,  that 
intrepid  man  walked  slowly  round  the  enclosure, 


28  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

passed,  without  pausing,  the  pool  of  the  phoca, 
glanced  with  disdainful  eye  at  the  box  filled  with 
bran  where  the  boa  was  digesting  that  live,  plucked 
hen,  and  planted  himself  finally  befojre  the  cage  of 
the  king  of  beasts. 

Terrible  and  solemn  interview!  The  lion  of 
Tarascon  and  the  lion  of  the  Atlas  face  to  face !  .  . 
On  one  side,  Tartarin,  erect,  right  leg  advanced 
and  both  arms  resting  on  his  rifle ;  on  the  other, 
the  lion,  a  gigantic  lion,  stretched  upon  the  straw, 
with  blinking  eyes  and  stupid  aspect,  his  mon- 
strous muzzle  and  his  yellow  wig  reposing  on  his 
fore-paws.  .  .  Both  were  calm,  and  gazed  upon 
each  other. 

Singular  result !  whether  it  was  that  the  needle- 
gun  gave  him  umbrage,  or  that  he  scented  an 
enemy  to  his  race,  the  lion,  who,  up  to  that  time,  had 
looked  at  the  Tarasconese  with  an  air  of  supreme 
contempt  while  yawning  in  their  faces,  the  lion  was 
suddenly  seized  with  an  angry  emotion.  First,  he 
snififed,  growled  in  an  undertone,  parted  his  claws 
and  stretched  out  his  paws ;  then  he  rose,  erected 
his  head,  shook  that  tawny  mane,  opened  his  vast 
jaws,  and  gave  vent,  eying  Tartarin,  to  a  formidable 
roar. 

A  cry  of  terror  answered  him.  All  Tarascon, 
mad  with  fright,  rushed  to  the  doors.  All  — 
women,  children,  porters,  hunters  of  caps,  the 
brave  Commander  Bravida  himself.-.  .  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  alone  never  stirred.  .  .  He  stood 
there,  firm  and  resolute  before  the  cage,  lightning 
in  his  eye  and  that  terrible  expression  the  whole 


The  Menagerie  Mitaine,  29 

town  knew  so  well  upon  his  face.  .  .  After  a 
while  the  cap-hunters,  reassured  by  his  attitude 
and  the  solidity  of  the  bars,  approached  their  leader 
and  heard  him  murmur,  as  he  gazed  at  the  lion: 
"That,  yes,  that  is  game." 

For    that   day,   Tartarin   of  Tarascon   said   no 
more.  .  . 


30  Tartarhi  of  Tarascon, 


IX. 

Singular  effects  of  mirage. 

That  day,  Tartarln  of  Tarascon  said  no  more ; 
but  the  hapless  man  had  already  said  too  much.  .  . 

The  next  day  nothing  was  talked  of  in  the  town 
but  the  coming  departure  of  Tartarin  for  Algeria 
to  hunt  the  Hon.  .  .  You  are  witnesses,  dear 
readers,  that  the  worthy  man  had  never  said  one 
word  about  it;   but,  mirage  —  you  understand.  .  . 

In  short,  all  Tarascon  talked  of  this  departure. 

On  the  promenade,  at  the  club,  in  Costecalde's 
shop,  men  approached  each  other  to  say,  with 
haggard  air :  — 

"  And  otherwise,  you  know  the  news,  at  least?  " 

'*  And  otherwise,  of  course  !  .  .  Tartarin's  depar- 
ture, at  least?  " 

At  Tarascon  all  sentences  begin  with  et  autre- 
ment  (there  pronounced  autremaifi)y  and  end  with 
au  inoins  (pronounced  au  mouairi).  On  this  occa- 
sion above  all  others,  the  *'  at  leasts,"  and  the 
"  otherwises,"  resounded  through  the  town  till  the 
windows  rattled. 

The  most  surprised  man  in  all  Tarascon  at  the 
news  that  he  was  going  to  Africa  was  Tartarin 


Smgular  Effects  of  Mirage,  31 

himself.  But  see  what  vanity  will  do !  Instead 
of  simply  answering  that  he  was  not  going  at  all, 
and  had  never  had  any  intention  of  going,  poor 
Tartarin,  the  first  time  the  journey  was  mentioned 
to  him,  assumed  an  evasive  air :  "  Hey !  .  .  hey !  .  . 
perhaps.  .  .  I  can't  say."  The  second  time,  being 
rather  more  famiHar  with  the  idea,  he  answered: 
"Probably."     The  third  time:   "Certainly." 

Finally,  one  evening  at  the  club  and  at  the  gun- 
smith's, led  away  by  an  egg-punch,  the  lights,  and 
the  cheering,  —  drunk,  in  short,  with  the  applause 
that  the  news  of  his  departure  had  evoked,  —  the 
unhappy  man  declared  formally  that  he  was  weary 
of  hunting  caps  and  was  about,  before  long,  to  set 
forth  in  pursuit  of  the  lions  of  Africa.  .  . 

This  declaration  was  greeted  with  a  thundering 
hurrah.  On  which,  more  egg-punch,  grasping  of 
hands,  accolades,  and  a  torch-light  serenade  in 
front  of  the  little  house  of  the  baobab. 

But  Tartarin-Sancho  was  far  from  happy.  This 
idea  of  a  journey  to  Africa  and  of  hunting  the 
lions  of  Atlas  gave  him  chills  down  his  back ;  and 
while  that  serenade  of  honour  was  still  sounding 
beneath  his  windows  Tartarin-Sancho  made  Tar- 
tarin-Quixote  a  terrible  scene,  calling  him  crazy, 
visionary,  imprudent,  a  triple  fool,  and  minutely 
detailing  the  many  catastrophes  that  awaited  him : 
shipwreck,  rheumatism,  fevers,  dysenteries,  black 
death,  elephantiasis,  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  .  . 

In  vain  did  Tartarin-Quixote  swear  he  would 
commit  no  imprudence ;  he  would  wrap  himself 
up,  he  would  carry  with  him  whatever  he  needed. 


32  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

Tartarln-Sancho  listened  to  nothing.  Already  he 
saw  himself  torn  to  bits  by  the  lions,  or  engulfed 
in  the  sands  of  the  desert  like  the  late  Cambyses ; 
the  other  Tartarin  could  succeed  in  pacifying  him 
only  by  the  reminder  that  this  departure  was  not 
immediate,  there  was  no  hurry,  and,  after  all,  they 
were  not  yet  gone. 

It  is  plain,  of  course,  that  no  one  starts  on  an 
expedition  like  that  without  taking  certain  precau- 
tions. In  the  first  place,  one  has  to  know  where 
one  is  going ;  how  the  devil  could  one  start  Hke  a 
bird?.  . 

Therefore,  before  all  things  else,  Tartarin  of  Tar- 
ascon  determined  to  read  the  narratives  of  the 
famous  African  tourists,  Mungo  Park,  Caille,  Dr. 
Livingstone,  Henri  Duveyrier. 

There  he  found  that  those  intrepid  travellers, 
before  they  buckled  on  their  sandals  for  distant 
enterprises,  prepared  themselves,  long  beforehand, 
to  endure  forced  marches,  hunger  and  thirst,  and 
all  sorts  of  privations.  Tartarin  determined  to  do 
as  they  did,  and  from  that  day  forth  he  fed  upon 
nothing  but  eati  bouillie.  What  is  called  eati  bou- 
illie  in  Tarascon  consists  of  slices  of  bread  steeped 
in  hot  water  with  a  clove  of  garlic,  a  sprig  of 
thyme,  and  a  pinch  of  bay-leaf.  The  regimen  was 
severe ;  and  you  can  fancy  what  a  face  poor  San- 
cho  made  at  it.  .  . 

To  the  training  of  eau  bouillie  Tartarin  of  Tar- 
ascon added  other  wise  practices.  To  acquire  the 
habit  of  long  marches,  he  compelled  himself  to 
walk  round  the  town  seven  or  eight  times  every 


Singular  Effects  of.  Mirage,  33 

morning,  without  stopping,  sometimes  at  a  quick- 
step, sometimes  in  gymnastic  fashion,  elbows  to 
his  sides  and  pebbles  in  his  mouth  —  according 
to  the  customs  of  antiquity. 

Next,  to  use  himself  to  cold  night-air  and  fogs 
and  dew,  he  went  down  into  the  garden  every 
evening,  alone  with  his  gun,  and  stayed  there 
on  watch  till  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  behind  the 
baobab. 

And  lastly  as  long  as  the  Menagerie  Mitalne 
remained  in  Tarascon,  belated  cap-hunters  loiter- 
ing at  Costecalde's  could  see,  as  they  went  their 
way  home  in  the  darkness,  a  mysterious  human 
being  pacing  up  and  down  behind  the  tents. 

'Twas  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  getting  used  to 
hear  without  a  shudder  the  roaring  of  the  lion 
'  through  the  darksome  night. 


34  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


X. 

Previous  to  departure. 

While  Tartarin  was  thus  training  himself  by  all 
sorts  of  heroic  means,  Tarascon  kept  its  eyes  fixed 
upon  him;  nothing  else  was  thought  of.  Cap- 
sport  lost  all  credit;  romantic  song  lay  fallow. 
B^zuquet's  piano  languished  in  the  pharmacy 
beneath  its  green  covering,  on  which  cantharides 
now  lay  drying,  their  stomachs  upturned  to  the 
air.  .  .  Tartarin's  expedition  stopped  everything 
short. 

The  success  of  the  Tarasconese  hero  in  the 
salons  was  a  thing  to  be  seen.  People  snatched 
him,  quarrelled  for  him,  borrowed  him,  stole  him. 
No  greater  honour  for  the  ladies  than  to  go  to 
the  menagerie  on  Tartarin's  arm  and  make  him 
explain,  in  front  of  the  lion's  cage,  how  he  should 
go  to  work  to  hunt  those  noble  beasts,  where  he 
should  aim,  at  what  distance  he  should  stand,  and, 
above  all,  the  numerous  accidents  that  were  likely 
to  befall  him. 

Tartarin  gave  all  the  explanations  demanded  of 
him.  He  had  read  Jules  Gerard,  and  knew  the 
method  of  hunting  lions  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 
as  if  he  had  practised  it.  Consequently,  he  spoke 
on  the  subject  with  great  eloquence. 


Previous  to  Departure.  35 

But  where  he  was  finest  was  at  dinner  in  the 
evening  with  old  Judge  Ladeveze  or  the  brave 
Commander  Bravida  (retired  captain  of  equip- 
ment), when  coffee  was  brought,  the  chairs  drawn 
together,  and  they  made  him  talk  of  his  future 
hunts.  .  . 

Then,  his  elbow  on  the  table-cloth,  his  nose  in 
his  mocha,  the  hero  related  in  a  voice  of  emotion 
the  perils  that  awaited  him ;  he  told  of  the  long 
night-watches,  moonless,  the  pestilential  marshes, 
the  rivers  poisoned  by  the  leaves  of  the  bay-tree, 
the  snows,  the  scorching  suns,  the  scorpions,  the 
rains  of  grasshoppers.  Also  he  told  of  the  morals 
and  customs  of  the  lions  of  the  Atlas,  their  manner 
of  fighting,  their  phenomenal  vigour,  and  their 
ferocity  during  the  rutting  season.  .  . 

Then,  exciting  himself  with  his  own  eloquence, 
he  sprang  from  the  table,  bounded  into  the  middle 
of  the  room,  imitating  the  cry  of  the  lion,  the 
discharge  of  the  rifle,  pan !  pan !  the  whistle  of 
the  ball,  pfft!  pfft !  gesticulating,  roaring,  and 
knocking  over  chairs. 

Around  the  table  all  were  pale.  The  men 
looked  at  each  other  and  shook  their  heads ;  the 
ladies  shut  their  eyes  with  little  screams  of  terror ; 
the  old  men  brandished  their  canes  belligerently; 
and  the  little  boys  in  the  adjoining  room,  put  to 
bed  early,  wakened  with  a  start  by  the  roaring  and 
the  shots,  demanded  lights  in  mortal  terror. 

Meanwhile,  however,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  did 
not  depart. 


36  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


XI. 

Sword-thrusts y  gentlemen,  sword-thrusts.  .  . 
but  no  pin-pricks  / 

Had  he  really  the  intention  to  go?  .  .  Delicate 
question,  to  which  Tartarin's  historian  is  puzzled 
to  reply. 

It  is  certain  that  the  Menagerie  Mitaine  had  left 
Tarascon  more  than  three  months  and  still  the 
lion-killer  did  not  depart.  But,  after  all,  perhaps 
the  simple  hero,  blinded  by  a  new  mirage,  imag- 
ined in  good  faith  that  he  had  been  to  Africa. 
Perhaps,  by  dint  of  relating  his  future  sport,  he 
fancied  he  had  killed  his  lions  as  sincerely  as  he 
believed  he  had  hoisted  the  consular  flag  and  fired 
on  the  Tartars,  pan  !  pan  !  at  Shanghai. 

Unfortunately,  if  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  the 
victim  of  another  mirage,  the  Tarasconese  were 
not ;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  three  or  four  months 
of  expectation,  it  became  apparent  that  the  hunter 
had  not  packed  a  single  trunk,  they  began  to 
murmur. 

"  It  will  be  as  it  was  about  Shanghai,"  said 
Costecalde,  smiling;  and  the  gunsmith's  speech 
went  the  rounds  of  the  town;  for  no  one  any 
longer  believed  in  Tartarin. 

Silly  people,  cowards,  men  like  Bezuquet,  whom 
a  flea  could  put  to  flight  and  who  dared  not  fire 


Sword-Thrusts,  Gentlemen.  37 

a  gun  without  shutting  their  eyes,  were  the  most 
pitiless.  At  the  club,  on  the  esplanade,  they  ac- 
costed poor  Tartarin  with  a  jeering  air. 

^^ Et  autremain!'  they  would  say,  "when  does 
the  trip  come  off  ?  " 

His  opinion  no  longer  had  weight  at  the  gun- 
smith's; even  the  cap-hunters  disowned  their 
leader ! 

Epigrams  took  part  in  the  affair.  Judge  Lade- 
veze,  who,  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  paid  willing  court 
to  the  Proven^ale  Muse,  composed  a  song  in  the 
vernacular  which  had  vast  success.  It  told  of  a 
certain  great  hunter,  called  Mattre  Gervais,  whose 
doughty  gun  was  expected  to  exterminate  the 
very  last  of  the  lions  of  Africa.  Unfortunately, 
that  gun  had  a  singular  disposition :  it  was  always 
loaded,  but  it  7iever  went  off. 

Never  went  off!    You  understand  the  allusion.  .  . 

In  a  trice,  that  song  became  popular.  When 
Tartarin  passed  the  porters  on  the  quay  or  the 
little  shoe-blacks  at  his  own  gate,  they  sang  it  in 
chorus. 

But  at  a  distance,  —  on  account  of  his  double 
muscles. 

Oh,  the  fragility  of  Tarascon  enthusiasm  ! 

The  great  man  himself  feigned  to  see  nothing, 
hear  nothing ;  but  in  his  heart  this  venomous  little 
underhand  war  distressed  him  much ;  he  felt  that 
Tarascon  was  slipping  through  his  fingers,  that 
popular  favour  was  going  to  others,  and  he  suf- 
fered horribly. 

Ah !  that  great  bowl  of  popularity !  how  good 


38  Tartarhi  of  Tarascon, 

to  sit  down  before  it,  but  if  it  upsets,  what 
scalding !  .  . 

In  spite  of  his  inward  suffering,  Tartarin  smiled, 
and  continued  tranquilly  his  same  way  of  life,  as  if 
nothing  were  happening. 

Occasionally,  however,  this  mask  of  gay  indif- 
ference, which  pride  had  gummed  upon  his  face, 
became  for  a  moment  detached,  and  then,  instead 
of  laughter,  indignation  was  visible,  and  sorrow.  .  . 

Thus  it  happened  that  one  morning,  when  the 
shoe-blacks  were  singing  the  song  of  the  gun  of 
Maitre  Gervais,  the  voices  of  those  young  rascals 
ascended  to  the  chamber  of  the  poor  great  man  as 
he  stood  before  his  glass  in  the  act  of  shaving. 
(Tartarin  wore  his  full  beard,  but  it  was  a  strong 
one,  and  he  was  forced  to  keep  an  eye  upon  it) 

Suddenly  the  window  opened  violently  and  the 
hero  appeared,  in  his  shirt  and  night-cap,  his  face 
in  a  good  white  lather,  brandishing  his  razor  in 
one  hand,  his  soap-ball  in  the  other,  and  shouting 
in  his  formidable  voice :  — 

**  Sword-thrusts,  gentlemen,  sword-thrusts,  but 
no  pin-pricks !  " 

Noble  words,  worthy  of  history  !  their  only  fault 
lay  in  being  addressed  to  little  scamps  no  taller 
than  their  blacking-boxes,  —  gentlemen  who  were 
quite  incapable  of  even  holding  a  sword. 


The  Little  House  of  Baobab,         39 


XII. 

That  which  was  said  in  the  little  house  of  the  baobab. 

In  the  midst  of  this  general  defection  the  army 
stood  firmly  by  Tartarin. 

The  brave  Commander  Bravida,  late  captain  of 
equipment,  continued  to  show  him  the  same  re- 
spect. "He's  a  lapiii!'  he  persisted  in  saying; 
and  this  assertion,  I  imagine,  was  worth  as  much 
as  that  of  the  apothecary  Bezuquet.  .  .  Not  once 
did  the  brave  commander  make  allusion  to  that 
African  journey.  Nevertheless,  when  public  clam- 
our became  too  strong,  he  resolved  to  speak  out. 

One  evening,  while  the  unfortunate  Tartarin  was 
sitting  alone  in  his  study,  thinking  of  melancholy 
things,  he  beheld  the  commander  entering  the 
room,  grave,  wearing  black  gloves,  and  buttoned 
to  the  chin. 

"  Tartarin,"  said  the  former  captain,  in  a  tone  of 
authority,  "  Tartarin,  you  must  go !  "  and  he  stood 
erect  in  the  frame  of  the  doorway — rigid  and 
grand  as  duty. 

All  that  was  contained  in  those  words :  "  Tarta- 
rin, you  must  go !  "  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  com- 
prehended. 

Very  pale,  he  rose,  looked  about  him  with  a 
touching  glance  on  the  pretty  room,  so  cozy,  so 


40  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

full  of  warmth  and  tempered  light,  on  his  easy- 
chair,  so  comfortable,  his  books,  his  carpet,  the 
large  white  shades  to  the  windows,  behind  which 
fluttered  the  slender  branches  of  his  little  garden : 
then,  advancing  to  the  brave  commander,  he  took 
his  hand,  and  pressing  it  firmly  said  in  a  voice  suf- 
fused with  tears,  —  stoical,  nevertheless,  —  "I  will 
go,  Bravida !  " 

And  he  went,  as  he  had  said.  But  not  immedi- 
ately.    He  needed  a  little  time  for  his  outfit. 

First,  he  ordered  from  Bompard  two  large  boxes 
lined  with  copper,  on  which  were  brass  plates 
bearing  this   inscription :  — 

TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON. 
WEAPONS. 

The  lining  of  these  boxes  and  the  inscriptions 
took  a  good  deal  of  time.  He  also  ordered  from 
Tastavin  a  magnificent  album  of  travel,  in  which 
to  write  his  journal,  his  impressions;  for  really, 
though  you  hunt  lions,  you  think  all  the  same  on 
the   way. 

Next,  he  sent  to  Marseilles  for  quite  a  cargo  of 
preserved  aliments,  pemmican  with  which  to  make 
broth,  a  shelter-tent  of  a  new  pattern  capable  of 
being  put  up  and  taken  down  in  a  minute,  sailor- 
boots,  two  umbrellas,  a  waterproof,  blue  spec- 
tacles to  prevent  opthalmia.  And,  lastly,  the 
apothecary  Bezuquet  put  him  up  a  little  portable 
pharmacy,  stocked  with  diachylon,  arnica,  cam- 
phor, vinegar  des  quatre-voleurSy  etc. 


The  Little  House  of  Baobab,         41 

Poor  Tartarin !  all  this  that  he  now  did  was  not 
for  himself;  but  he  hoped  by  dint  of  precautions 
and  delicate  attentions  to  appease  the  wrath  of 
Tartarin-Sancho,  who,  ever  since  the  departure 
had  been  finally  resolved  upon,  never  ceased  to 
be  angry,  night  or  day. 


42  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


XIII. 

The  departure. 

The  day  arrived ;  the  solemn  day,  the  great 
day. 

At  early  dawn  Tarascon  was  afoot,  blocking  the 
road  to  Avignon  and  the  approaches  to  the  little 
house  of  the  baobab. 

People  at  the  windows,  on  the  roofs,  on  the 
trees;  sailors  of  the  Rhone,  porters,  shoe-blacks, 
burghers,  spinners,  silk-weavers,  the  club,  —  in 
short,  the  whole  town;  also  the  inhabitants  of 
Beaucaire,  who  came  across  the  bridge,  the  mar- 
ket-gardeners of  the  suburbs  and  their  carts  with 
great  awnings,  vine-dressers,  perched  on  handsome 
mules  tricked  out  with  ribbons,  tassels,  bells ;  and 
even,  here  and  there,  some  pretty  girls  from  Aries, 
with  sky-blue  ribbons  round  their  heads,  brought 
by  their  lovers,  en  croupe^  on  the  little  gray  horses 
of  the  Camargue. 

The  whole  crowd  pressed  and  jostled  one  an- 
other round  Tartarin's  gate  —  that  good  M.  Tar- 
tarin, who  was  going  to  kill  lions  among  the  Tetirs. 

To  the  Tarasconese  mind,  Algiers,  Africa,  Greece, 
Persia,  Turkey,  Mesopotamia  form  one  great  coun- 
try, very  vague,  almost  mythological,  and  it  goes 
by  the  name  of  les  Teurs  (the  Turks). 


The  Departure,  43 

In  the  midst  of  this  tumultuous  crowd  the  cap- 
hunters  went  and  came,  proud  of  the  triumph  of 
their  chief,  their  passage  tracing  furrows  of  glory- 
through  the  multitude. 

Before  the  house  of  the  baobab  stood  two  great 
barrows.  From  time  to  time  the  gate  was  opened, 
so  that  certain  persons  walking  gravely  in  the  gar- 
den could  be  seen.  Porters  brought  trunks,  boxes, 
carpet-bags,  and  piled  them  on  the  barrows. 

As  each  new  package  appeared,  the  crowd  quiv- 
ered.    The  various  objects  were  named  aloud. 

"  There  !  that 's  the  shelter-tent.  .  .  Those  are 
the  preserved  things.  .  .  There  's  the  pharmacy .  .  . 
and  the  weapons,"  —  about  which  the  cap-sports- 
men gave  explanations. 

Suddenly,  towards  ten  o'clock,  a  great  stir  took 
place  in  the  crowd.  The  gate  swung  violently  on 
its  hinges. 

*'  'T  is  he  !  .  .  't  is  he  !  .  .  "  they  cried. 

It  was  he.  .  . 

When  he  appeared  on  the  threshold  two  cries  of 
stupefaction  issued  from  the  crowd. 

"  It  is  a  Teur !  .  .'' 

*'  He  wears  spectacles  !  " 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  felt  it  his  duty,  as  he 
was  going  to  Algiers,  to  assume  an  Algerian  cos- 
tume, —  full  trousers  of  white  Hnen,  a  short  tight- 
fitting  jacket  with  metal  buttons,  two  feet  of  waist- 
band, red,  round  his  stomach,  throat  bare,  forehead 
shaved,  and  on  his  head  a  gigantic  Chechia  (scarlet 
fez)  with  a  blue  woollen  tassel,  of  a  length  !  !  .  .  On 
each  shoulder  a  heavy  gun,  a  large  hunting-knife 


44  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

in  his  belt,  upon  his  stomach  a  cartridge-box, 
upon  his  hip  a  revolver,  swinging  in  a  leathern 
pocket.     That  was  all.  .  . 

Oh !  excuse  me,  I  forgot  the  spectacles,  which 
came  in,  very  apropos,  to  correct  a  little  something 
that  was  rather  too  savage  in  our  hero's  outfit. 

*'  Vive  Tartarin !  .  .  vive  Tartarin !  .  .  "  shouted 
the  people.  The  great  man  smiled,  but  did  not 
bow,  his  guns  hindered  him.  Besides,  he  knew  by 
this  time  what  popular  favour  was  worth ;  perhaps, 
in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  he  may  even  have  cursed 
his  terrible  compatriots,  who  compelled  him  to 
depart  and  to  leave  his  pretty  little  home  with  its 
white  walls  and  its  green  blinds.  .  .  But  if  this 
were  so,  it  did  not  appear. 

Calm  and  proud,  though  a  trifle  pale,  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  roadway,  looked  at  his  barrows,  and 
then,  seeing  that  all  was  right,  he  took  his  way 
jauntily  to  the  station,  without  so  much  as  once 
glancing  back  to  the  house  of  the  baobab.  Behind 
him  marched  the  brave  Commander  Bravida,  re- 
tired captain  of  equipment,  and  Judge' Ladeveze, 
then  came  the  gunsmith  Costecalde  and  all  the 
sportsmen,  then  the  barrows,  then  the  populace. 

In  front  of  the  station  the  station-master  awaited 
him — an  old  African  of  1830,  who  pressed  his 
hand  warmly  several  times. 

The  Paris-Marseilles  express  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived. Tartarin  and  his  staff  entered  the  waiting- 
room.  To  avoid  the  pressure  of  a  crowd,  the 
station-master  ordered  the  iron  gates  to  be  closed 
behind  them.    . 


The  Departure,  45 

Tartarin  walked  up  and  down  for  fifteen  minutes 
in  the  midst  of  his  friends  and  the  hunters.  He 
spoke  to  them  of  his  journey,  of  his  noble  game, 
and  promised  to  send  them  skins.  They  wrote 
their  names  upon  his  tablets  for  a  skin  as  they  did 
at  a  ball  for  a  country  dance. 

Tranquil  and  gentle  as  Socrates  ere  he  drank 
the  hemlock,  the  intrepid  hero  had  a  word  for 
each,  a  smile  for  all.  He  spoke  simply,  with  an 
affable  air;  you  would  have  thought  that  before 
departing  he  wished  to  leave  behind  him  a  trail, 
as  it  were,  of  charm,  regrets,  kind  memories. 
Hearing  their  chief  speak  thus  to  them,  all  the 
cap-men  shed  tears;  some  even  felt  remorse, 
among  them  Judge  Ladeveze  and  Bezuquet,  the 
apothecary. 

The  train  men  wept  in  corners.  Outside,  the 
populace  gazed  through  the  bars  and  shouted: 
**  Vive  Tartarin  !  " 

At  last  the  bell  rang.  A  dull  rumbling,  a  shrill 
whistle,  shook  the  roof.  .  .  "  Take  your  places, 
messieurs,  your  places  !  " 

"Adieu,  Tartarin!  .  .  adieu,  Tartarin!  .  .  " 

"  Adieu,  all !  "  murmured  the  hero,  and  on  the 
cheek  of  the  brave  Commander  Bravida  he  kissed 
his  dear  Tarascon. 

Then  he  sprang  upon  the  track  and  jumped  into 
a  carriage  that  was  full  of  gay  Parisian  women, 
who  nearly  died  of  fear  on  seeing  this  strange  man 
of  carbines  and  revolvers  in  their  midst. 


46  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 


XIV. 

TTie  port  of  Marseilles.     Embark  ! 
Embark  I 

On  the  ist  of  December,  186-,  at  mid-day, 
under  a  Provencal  winter  sun,  weather  clear,  bril- 
liant, splendid,  the  terrified  Marseillais  beheld  the 
arrival  of  a  Teur^  oh !  such  a  Teur!  .  .  Never  had 
they  seen  one  like  him ;  yet  God  knows  Teurs  are 
never  lacking  in  Marseilles  —  I  mean  Turks. 

The  Teur  in  question  (need  I  tell  you)  was 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  marching  along  the  quays, 
followed  by  his  case  of  weapons,  his  apothecary's 
shop,  his  preserved  aliments,  and  so  forth,  in  order 
to  reach  the  packet-boat  *' Zouave,"  which  was 
destined  to  carry  him  over  there. 

Tartarin,  his  ears  still  ringing  with  Tarasconese 
applause,  intoxicated  with  the  light  of  the  sky 
and  the  smell  of  the  sea,  Tartarin  radiant,  marched 
along,  his  guns  on  his  shoulders,  his  head  high, 
looking  with  all  his  eyes  at  that  marvellous  port 
of  Marseilles,  which  he  now  saw  for  the  first  time, 
and  which  fairly  dazzled  him.  .  .  The  poor  man 
thought  he  dreamed.  He  imagined  he  was  Sin- 
bad  the  Sailor,  wandering  in  one  of  those  fantastic 
towns  he  had  read  of  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 


The  Port  of  Marseilles.  47 

A  tangle  of  masts  and  yards,  lost  to  sight  in 
the  distance  and  crossing  one  another  in  every 
direction.  Flags  of  all  nations,  Russian,  Greek, 
Swedish,  Tunisian,  American  .  .  .  Vessels  moved  to 
the  quays,  their  bowsprits  lying  along  the  marge 
like  rows  of  bayonets.  Above  them  naiads,  god- 
desses, Holy  Virgins,  and  other  wooden  carvings, 
all  painted,  and  giving  their  names  to  the  various 
vessels;  but  each  defaced  by  the  salt  sea-waves, 
rotten,  damp,  and  oozing.  .  .  Here  and  there,  be- 
tween the  vessels,  was  a  patch  of  sea,  like  a  large 
piece  of  moire  silk  spotted  with  oil.  .  .  Beyond  were 
flocks  of  gulls,  making  pretty  objects  through  the 
interlacing  yards  on  the  clear  blue  sky,  while  the 
cabin-boys  below  were  calling  to  each  other  in  all 
known  languages. 

On  the  quay,  amid  rivulets  coming  from  the 
soap  manufactories,  green,  thick,  blackish,  brimful 
of  oil  and  soda,  were  crowds  of  custom-house 
officers,  messengers,  porters  with  their  bogheys,  to 
which  were  harnessed  little  Corsican  horses ;  shops 
filled  with  queerly  made  garments,  and  smoky 
hovels  where  sailors  cooked  their  food ;  sellers  of 
pipes,  sellers  of  monkeys  and  parrots;  piles  of 
ropes,  sailcloth,  fantastic  bric-^-brac,  among  which 
were  jumbled  pell-mell  ancient  culverins,  huge 
gilded  lanterns,  old  tackle,  old  toothless  anchors, 
old  cordage,  old  pulleys,  old  speaking-trumpets, 
and  spyglasses  of  the  time  of  Jean  Bart  and  Du- 
guay-Trouin.  Hawkers  of  mussels  and  periwinkles 
were  crouching  and  bawling  beside  their  shell-fish ; 
sailors  were  passing  with  pots  of  tar  and  smoking 


48  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

saucepans  and  large  baskets  full  of  pulp,  which 
they  took  to  rinse  in  the  running  water  of  the 
fountains. 

Everywhere  enormous  encumbering  masses  of 
merchandise  of  all  sorts :  silks,  minerals,  rafts  of 
wood,  pigs  of  lead,  linens,  sugars,  cabbages,  locust- 
beans,  sugar-canes,  liquorice.  The  East  and  the 
West  pell-mell.  Also  great  mounds  of  Dutch 
cheeses,  which  the  Genoese  dye  red  with  their 
hands. 

Farther  along  was  the  wheat  quay,  where  the 
stevedores  were  discharging  their  sacks  on  the 
marge  from  the  top  of  a  tall  scaffolding.  The 
wheat,  a  golden  torrent,  rolled  down  in  yellow 
vapour.  Men  below,  in  red  caps,  were  sifting  it, 
as  it  came,  through  enormous  sieves  of  asses'  skin, 
and  loading  it  on  carts,  which  were  followed  a^ 
they  moved  away  by  a  regiment  of  women  and 
children  with  brooms  and  baskets  to  catch  the 
gleaning.  .  .  Farther  still  was  the  dock  for  careen- 
ing; where  large  vessels  lay  on  their  sides  and 
were  singed  with  burning  brush  to  rid  them  of  sea- 
weed ;  their  yards  almost  touching  the  water,  the 
smell  of  the  rosin  rising  with  the  muffled  noise  of 
the  carpenters  covering  the  hulls  of  the  ships  with 
great  plates  of  copper. 

Occasionally,  between  the  masts,  came  an  open 
space.  Through  it  Tartarin  saw  the  entrance  to 
the  port,  the  coming  and  going  of  great  ships,  an 
English  frigate  leaving  for  Malta,  spruce,  well- 
cleansed,  her  officers  in  yellow  kid  gloves ;  or  else 
a  ^reat   Marseillaise   brig   leaving  her   moorings, 


The  Port  of  Marseilles,  49 

'mid  cries  and  oaths,  her  captain,  in  a  frock-coat 
and  a  silk  hat,  commanding  the  manceuvre  in  the 
Provencal  language.  Some  craft  were  going  with 
the  wind,  all  sails  set ;  others,  away  in  the  distance, 
were  coming  slowly  in,  looking  through  the  sun- 
mist  as  if  in  mid-air. 

All  this  while,  a  fearful  racket  of  carts,  the 
"  Oh !  hisse  "  of  the  sailors,  oaths,  songs,  whistles 
of  steamboats,  drums  and  bugles  of  Fort  Saint- 
Jean  and  Fort  Saint-Nicolas,  chimes  from  the 
Major,  the  Accoules,  and  the  Saint-Victor,  and, 
over  all,  the  mistraly  which  caught  up  these  noises, 
these  clamours,  rolled  them,  shook  them,  blended 
them  with  its  own  weird  voice,  making  a  wild, 
heroic,  savage  music,  a  paean  of  departure,  a  paean 
which  created  a  desire  to  depart,  to  go  far,  to  have 
wings. 

To  the  sound  of  this  splendid  blast  it  was  that 
the  intrepid  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  set  sail  for  the 
land  of  the  lions. 


50  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 


SECOND  EPISODE. 

AMONG  THE  TEURS. 


The  voyage.     The  five  positibns  of  the  fez. 
The  evening  of  the  third  day.     Mercy  / 

I  WOULD,  my  dear  readers,  that  I  were  a  painter, 
a  great  painter,  to  put  before  your  eyes,  at  the 
head  of  this  second  episode,  the  five  positions  of 
the  fez  of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  during  its  three 
days'  voyage  on  board  the  "  Zouave "  between 
France  and  Algeria. 

First,  I  would  show  it  to  you  on  the  gangway 
at  the  moment  of  departure,  heroic,  superb,  a 
lambent  glory  around  that  Tarasconese  head. 
Next,  I  would  make  you  see  it  when  the  "  Zouave  '' 
began  on  leaving  port  to  caracole  upon  the  billows ; 
you  would  then  behold  it  quivering,  amazed,  and 
as  if  already  feeling  the  first  assaults  of  ill. 

Then,  in  the  gulf  of  Lyons,  as  the  ship  drew 
farther  from  land  and  the  sea  grew  rougher,  I 
would  show  it  to  you  grappling  with  the  tempest, 
rising,  horrified,  on  the  skull  of  the  hero,  its  stream- 
ing tassel  of  blue  wool  standing  on  end  in  the  fog 
and  the  squall. 


The   Voyage,  5 1 

Fourth  position  Six  in  the  evening;  in  sight 
of  the  Corsican  coast.  The  unfortunate  fez  is  now- 
seen  bending  over  the  bulwarks,  lamentably  gaz- 
ing into  and  sounding  the  sea.  .  .  Finally,  fifth  and 
last  position:  below  in  a  narrow  cabin,  in  a  bed 
like  a  bureau-drawer,  something  amorphous,  dis- 
consolate, rolls  moaning  on  a  pillow.  'T  is  the  fez, 
the  heroic  fez  of  departure,  now  reduced  to  the 
commonplace  condition  of  a  knitted  night-cap 
pulled  down  over  the  ears  of  a  convulsed  and 
ghastly  head. 

Ah !  if  the  Tarasconese  could  have  seen  their 
great  Tartarin  as  he  lay  in  his  bureau-drawer  in 
the  wan  sad  light  which  fell  through  the  bull's-eye, 
amid  that  fetid  odour  of  kitchen  and  damp  wood, 
that  sickening  odour  of  a  steamboat ;  if  they  could 
have  heard  the  rattle  in  his  throat  at  every  turn  of 
the  screw,  heard  him  cry  for  tea  every  five  minutes, 
and  swear  at  the  waiters  in  the  feeble  voice  of  an 
infant,  how  sorry  they  would  feel  that  they  forced 
him  to  go.  .  .  On  my  word  as  an  historian,  that 
poor  Teur  was  pitiful.  Suddenly  overtaken  by 
nausea,  the  unfortunate  man  had  neither  time  nor 
courage  to  loosen  his  Algerine  belt,  or  divest  him- 
self of  his  arsenal.  The  hunting-knife  with  its 
heavy  handle  bruised  his  breast,  the  strap  of  the 
revolver  flayed  his  legs.  To  complete  his  agony, 
the  mutterings  of  Tartarin-Sancho,  who  never 
ceased  to  moan  and  rail :  "  Imbecile  that  you  are ! 
I  told  you  so  !  .  .  Ha  !  you  would  go  to  Africa  !  .  . 
Well,  here  's  Africa.  .  .  How  do  you  find  your- 
self? " 


52  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

Most  cruel  of  all,  in  the  depths  of  that  cabin, 
above  his  moans,  the  hapless  man  could  overhear 
the  passengers  in  the  great  saloon,  laughing,  eating, 
singing,  and  playing  cards.  Society  was  as  joyous 
as  it  was  numerous  on  board  the  *'  Zouave  "  :  officers 
rejoining  their  corps,  ladies  of  the  Alcazar  of 
Marseilles,  strolling  players,  a  rich  Mussulman 
returning  from  Mecca,  a  Montenegrin  prince,  very 
facetious,  who  gave  imitations  of  Ravel  and  Gil 
Perez.  .  .  Not  one  of  these  persons  was  seasick,  and 
they  spent  their  time  drinking  champagne  with  the 
captain  of  the  *' Zouave,"  a  stout  bon  vivant  of 
Marseilles,  who  had  households  at  both  ends  of  his 
trip,  and  answered  to  the  jovial  name  of  Barbassou. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  bitter  against  these 
wretches.     Their  gayety  redoubled  his  qualms.  .  . 

At  last,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  an 
extraordinary  commotion,  felt  and  heard  through- 
out the  vessel,  dragged  our  hero  from  his  torpor. 
A  bell  rang  forward.  The  heavy  boots  of  the 
sailors  were  running  overhead.  **  Go  ahead  !  .  . 
Back !  .  ."  shouted  the  hoarse  voice  of  Captain 
Barbassou. 

Then :  '*  Stop  her  !  "  —  sudden  jar,  stillness,  and 
nothing  more.  .  .  Nothing,  except  the  silent  sway- 
ing of  the  steamer  from  right  to  left,  like  a  balloon 
in  the  air. 

This  singular  stillness  terrified  Tartarin.  "  Mercy 
upon  us !  we  are  sinking !  "  he  cried,  in  a  terrible 
voice ;  and,  recovering  his  strength  as  if  by  magic, 
he  bounded  from  his  lair  and  rushed  on  deck  with 
his  arsenal. 


To  Arms  I  To  Arms  I  53 


II. 

To  arms !  To  arms/ 

They  were  not  sinking ;  they  had  only  arrived. 

The  "  Zouave "  had  entered  the  roadstead,  a 
fine  roadstead,  with  dark,  deep  water,  but  silent, 
gloomy,  almost  deserted.  Facing  them,  on  the 
hillside,  lay  Algiers  the  White,  with  its  little  houses 
of  a  dead  whiteness  pressing  close  together  and 
running  down  to  the  shore.  The  barges  of  the 
washerwomen  were  on  the  Meudon  slope.  Above, 
a  broad  blue  satin  sky,  but  oh !  so  blue !  .  . 

The  illustrious  Tartarin,  somewhat  recovered 
from  his  fright,  gazed  at  the  landscape,  and  lis- 
tened with  respect  to  the  Montenegrin  prince,  who, 
standing  beside  him,  named  the  various  quarters 
of  the  city :  the  Kasbah,  the  Upper  town,  the  rue 
Bab-Azoun.  Very  well  educated  this  Montenegrin 
prince  —  knowing  Algeria  to  the  core  and  speaking 
Arabic  fluently.  Consequently,  Tartarin  proposed 
to  himself  to  cultivate  the  prince's  acquaintance.  .  . 
All  of  a  sudden  the  hero  saw,  along  the  bulwarks 
against  which  they  were  leaning,  a  row  of  big 
black  hands  clutching  them  from  the  outside.  At 
the  same  moment  a  negro's  woolly  head  appeared 
in  front  of  him,  and,  before  he  had  time  to  open 
his  mouth,  the  deck  was  invaded  on  all  sides  by  a 


54  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

hundred  or  more  pirates,  black,  yellow,  half-naked, 
hideous,  terrible. 

Those  pirates !  Tartarin  knew  them  well.  .  . 
'T  was  they,  yes,  theyy  the  famous  they  he  had  so 
often  sought  at  night  in  the  streets  of  Tarascon. 
So  here,  at  last,  tJiey  had  decided  to  appear !  .  . 

At  first,  surprise  glued  Tartarin  to  the  spot.  But 
when  he  saw  the  pirates  rushing  upon  the  baggage, 
pulling  off  the  tarpaulins  that  covered  it,  and  be- 
ginning to  pillage  the  ship,  the  hero  within  him 
awoke.  Unsheathing  his  knife,  "  To  arms !  to 
arms  !  "  he  cried  to  the  passengers,  and  rushed,  the 
very  first,  upon  the  pirates. 

''  Ques  aco  ?  What 's  the  matter?  what  are  you 
about?"  cried  Captain  Barbassou,  emerging  from 
between  decks. 

"  Ah  !  here  you  are,  captain.  .  .  Quick,  quick ! 
arm  your  men  !  " 

''Hey!  what  for?  botm  Diou!" 

''Why,  don't  you  see?  .  ." 

"See  what?" 

"  There  .  .  .  before  you  .  .  .  pirates." 

Captain  Barbassou  gazed  at  Tartarin  perplexed. 
At  this  instant  a  tall  devil  of  a  negro  ran  past  them 
with  the  hero's  pharmacy  on  his  back. 

"  Wretch  !  stop  !  stop  !  "  roared  Tartarin,  rushing 
forward,  his  dagger  held  aloft. 

Barbassou  caught  him  on  the  jump,  and  held 
him  by  that  Algerine  belt. 

"  Be  quiet,  iron  de  Ver!  Those  are  not  pirates ; 
there  are  no  pirates  now-a-days.  .  .  Those  are 
porters." 


To  Arms  I  To  Arms!  55 

** Porters?  .  ." 

"  Yes,  porters ;  come  for  the  baggage,  to  take  it 
ashore.  Sheathe  your  cutlass,  give  me  your  ticket, 
and  follow  that  negro,  a  worthy  fellow;  he'll  show 
you  the  way,  and  even  go  as  far  as  the  hotel  if  you 
wish  it." 

Slightly  confused,  Tartarin  gave  up  his  ticket 
and,  following  the  negro,  descended  by  the  man- 
ropes  to  a  big  boat  that  was  dancing  up  and  down 
beside  the  ship.  His  property  was  already  in  it, 
his  trunks,  boxes,  weapons,  and  alimentary  pre- 
serves. As  they  filled  the  whole  boat  there  was 
no  use  in  waiting  for  other  passengers.  The  tall 
negro  clambered  on  the  trunks  and  squatted  like  a 
monkey,  his  knees  in  his  hands.  Another  negro 
took  the  oars  ;  both  looked  at  Tartarin  and  grinned, 
showing  their  white  teeth. 

Standing  in  the  stern,  and  making  that  fearful 
grimace  that  sent  terror  to  the  hearts  of  his  com- 
patriots, the  great  Tarasconese  hero  was  feverishly 
fingering  the  handle  of  his  cutlass ;  for  in  spite  of 
what  Barbassou  had  said,  he  was  only  half  reas- 
sured as  to  the  intentions  of  those  ebon-skinned 
porters,  who  were  so  unlike  the  good  stevedores 
of  his  native  town. 

Five  minutes  later  the  boat  reached  the  landing 
and  Tartarin  set  foot  on  that  little  Barbary  wharf 
where,  three  centuries  earlier,  a  Spanish  galley- 
slave,  Miguel  Cervantes  by  name,  prepared  — 
beneath  the  lash  of  an  Algerine  overseer  —  a 
sublime  romance,  destined  to  be  called  "Don 
Quixote." 


56  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


III. 

Invocation  to  Cervantes.    Disembarkation, 

Where  are  the  Teurs  f    No  Teurs, 

Disillusion, 

O  Miguel  Cervantes  Saavedra,  if  what  they 
say  is  true,  if  in  the  places  where  great  men  have 
lived  something  of  themselves  still  Hngers  and 
floats  in  the  air  throughout  the  ages,  that  which 
thus  remains  of  thee  upon  this  Barbary  coast  must 
have  quivered  with  joy  in  beholding  the  disembar- 
kation of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  that  wonderful  type 
of  the  Southern  Frenchman,  in  whom  are  incar- 
nated the  heroes  of  thy  book  —  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  Panza. 

The  air  was  warm  that  day.  The  sun  was  rip- 
pling on  the  quay.  Five  or  six  custom-house 
officers  and  certain  Algerines,  expectant  of  news 
from  France,  were  standing  about;  a  few  Moors 
crouching  on  their  hams  and  smoking  their  long 
pipes ;  Maltese  sailors  hauling  in  their  great  nets, 
in  which  were  myriads  of  sardines  glittering  between 
the  meshes  like  silver  coins. 

But  scarcely  had  Tartarin  set  foot  to  land  before 
the  quay  grew  lively ;  its  aspect  changed.  A  band 
of  savages,  more  hideous  tlian  the  pirates  on  the 
vessel,  sprang  up  from  the  pebbles  of  the  beach 


Invocation  to  Cervantes,  57 

and  darted  on  the  new  arrival.  Tall  Arabs,  quite 
naked  under  woollen  coverlets,  little  Moors  in  rags, 
negroes,  Tunisians,  Mahonese,  M'zabites,  hotel 
waiters  in  white  aprons,  all  yelling,  shouting,  clutch- 
ing at  his  clothes,  quarrelling  for  his  baggage ;  this 
one  carrying  off  his  aliments,  another  his  pharmacy, 
and  all  deafening  him  in  some  outlandish  jargon 
with  the  names,  unintelligible,  of  hotels. 

Giddy  from  the  tumult,  poor  Tartarin  went  and 
came  and  cursed  and  swore,  running  half  demented 
after  his  various  packages,  and,  not  knowing  how 
to  make  himself  understood  by  such  barbarians, 
haranguing  them  in  French,  in  Provencal,  and 
finally  in  Latin,  the  Latin  of  Pourceaugnac,  rosUy 
the  rose,  bonuSy  bo7ia,  bonum,  —  in  short,  all  he 
knew.  .  .  Wasted  efforts !  No  one  listened  to 
him.  .  .  Happily  a  small  man,  dressed  in  a  tight 
coat  with  a  yellow  collar  and  armed  with  a  long 
cane,  intervened,  like  one  of  Homer's  gods,  in  the 
fray,  and  dispersed  the  rabble  with  his  stick.  This 
was  an  Algerine  policeman.  Very  politely  he 
invited  Tartarin  to  go  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe 
and  consigned  him  to  one  of  the  surrounding 
waiters,  who  carried  him  off,  himself  and  his  bag- 
gage, on  several  barrows. 

At  the  first  steps  which  he  made  in  Algiers, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  opened  wide  his  eyes.  He 
had  pictured  the  place  a  city  of  the  Orient,  fairy- 
like, mythological,  something  between  Constanti- 
nople and  Zanzibar.  .  .  He  had  tumbled  into 
another  Tarascon !  .  .  Cafes,  restaurants,  wide 
streets,  four-storied  houses,  a  little  macadamized 


58  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

square,  where  the  band  of  a  Hne  regiment  was 
playing  Offenbach's  polkas,  gentlemen  on  chairs 
drinking  beer  with  pastry,  ladies,  a  few  loretteSy 
and  soldiers,  ever  soldiers,  and  still  soldiers,  but 
never  a  Teiir !  .  .  None,  that  is,  but  himself. 
Consequently,  he  found  himself  rather  embar- 
rassed in  crossing  the  square.  Everybody  stared 
at  him.  The  band  stopped  playing,  leaving  Offen- 
bach's polka  with  one  foot  in  the  air. 

Both  guns  upon  his  shoulder,  the  revolver  on 
his  hip,  fierce  and  majestic  as  Robinson  Crusoe, 
Tartarin  passed  gravely  through  the  groups ;  but 
on  arriving  at  the  hotel  his  strength  abandoned 
him.  The  departure  from  Tarascon,  the  port  of 
Marseilles,  the  voyage,  the  Montenegrin  prince, 
the  pirates,  rolled  confusedly  through  his  head  in 
a  muddle.  .  .  They  were  forced  to  carry  him  to 
his  chamber,  disarm  and  disrobe  him.  .  .  They 
even  talked  of  sending  for  a  doctor.  But  scarcely 
was  his  head  upon  the  pillow  before  the  hero  snored 
so  loudly  and  heartily  that  the  landlord  judged  the 
assistance  of  the  sciences  to  be  unnecessary,  and 
everybody  discreetly  retired. 


The  First  Watch,  59 


IV. 

The  first  Watch. 

The  Government  clock  was  striking  three  when 
Tartarin  woke  up.  He  had  slept  all  the  evening, 
all  the  night,  all  the  morning,  and  a  good  part  of 
the  afternoon;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
for  three  days  and  three  nights  the  fez  had  had  a 
hard  time.  .  . 

The  first  thought  of  the  hero  on  opening  his 
eyes  was  this :  "  I  am  now  in  the  land  of  the 
lion  !  "  —  Why  not  say  it?  —  at  this  idea  that  lions 
were  close-by,  a  step  off,  almost  at  his  elbow,  and 
that  the  time  had  come  to  grapple  with  them, 
b-r-r-r !  .  .  a  mortal  chill  laid  hold  of  him  and  he 
plunged  intrepidly  beneath  the  bedclothes. 

But  a  moment  later  the  gayety  out-doors,  the 
sky  so  blue,  the  sunlight  rippling  through  his 
chamber,  the  open  window  looking  to  the  sea, 
the  good  little  breakfast  served  to  him  in  bed, 
washed  down  with  a  flask  of  excellent  Crescia 
wine,  restored  him  quickly  to  his  former  heroism. 
''  To  the  Hon !  to  the  lion  !"  he  cried  ;  and  flinging 
back  the  bedclothes,  he  dressed  himself  hastily. 

This  was  his  plan :  to  leave  the  town  without  a 
word  to  any  one,  fling  himself  into  the  open  desert, 
await  the  night  in  ambush,  and  on  the  first  lion 


6o  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

that  came  by,  pan  !  pan  !  .  .  Then,  to  return  next 
morning  for  breakfast  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe, 
receive  the  congratulations  of  the  Algerines,  and 
charter  a  cart  to  fetch  the  animal. 

He  armed  himself  therefore  in  haste,  hoisted 
upon  his  back  the  shelter-tent,  the  stout  pole  of 
which  reached  to  a  foot  above  his  head,  and,  rigid 
as  a  pile,  went  down  into  the  street.  There,  un- 
willing to 'ask  his  way  lest  he  should  awaken 
inquiry  as  to  his  projects,  he  turned  to  the  right, 
threaded  his  way  to  the  farther  end  of  the  Bab- 
Azoun  arcades,  where  crowds  of  Algerine  Jews, 
ambushed  like  spiders  in  the  corners  of  their  black 
shops,  watched  him  pass,  crossed  the  Theatre 
square,  followed  the  faubourg,  and  came  at  last  to 
the  dusty  highroad  of  Mustapha. 

The  road  was  fantastically  encumbered.  Omni- 
buses, hackney-coaches,  corricolas,  railway-vans, 
hay-waggons  drawn  by  bullocks,  squadrons  of 
chasseurs  d^Afrique,  troops  of  microscopic  little 
donkeys,  negresses  peddling  cakes,  vehicles  of 
Algerine  emigrants,  spahis  in  red  mantles;  t*nd 
all  defiling  in  clouds  of  dust  amid  shouts,  songs, 
the  blare  of  trumpets,  between  two  rows  of  shabby 
huts  at  the  doors  of  which  the  tall  Mahonese 
women  could  be  seen  combing  themselves,  taverns 
full  of  soldiers,  and  the  shops  of  the  butchers  and 
the  horse-meat  men.  .  . 

"What  is  all  their  talk  about  this  Orient?" 
thought  Tartarin.  **  Why,  there  are  not  so  many 
Tetirs  as  there  are  in  Marseilles." 

Suddenly   he   saw,   passing    close   beside   him, 


The  First  Watch,  6i 

stretching  forth  its  great  legs  and  swelling  its  neck 
like  a  turkey,  a  superb  camel.  That  made  his 
heart  beat. 

Camels  already !  Lions  could  not  be  far  off; 
and,  sure  enough,  in  about  five  minutes  he  saw, 
coming  towards  him,  shouldering  their  guns,  a 
whole  troop  of  lion-hunters. 

"  Cowards !  "  said  our  hero  to  himself  as  he 
passed  beside  them,  "  cowards !  to  hunt  lions  in 
bands !  with  dogs !  .  ."  For  he  never  imagined 
that  anything  but  lions  could  be  hunted  in  Algeria. 
However,  these  hunters  having  the  kindly  appear- 
ance of  retired  merchants,  and  this  fashion  of  hunt- 
ing lions  with  dogs  and  gamebags  seeming  so 
patriarchal,  Tartarin,  a  good  deal  puzzled,  thought 
proper  to  question  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

''  Et  autrement,  comrade,  a  good  hunt?" 

"Not  bad,"  repHed  the  other,  gazing  with  a 
scared  eye  at  the  very  considerable  armament  of 
the  warrior  of  Tarascon. 

"You  killed?" 
Why,  yes  .  .  .  not  bad  .  .  .  look  there ; "  and  the 
hunter  tapped  his  gamebag,  bulging  with  rabbits 
and  woodcock. 

**What!  your  gamebag?  .  .  But  surely  you 
can't  put  them  in  a  gamebag?" 

"  Where  else  do  you  expect  me  to  put  them?  " 

"But  if  so,  then  they  —  they  must  be  little 
ones." 

"  Little  and  big,"  replied  the  hunter ;  and  as  he 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  he  rejoined  his  com- 
rades with  great  strides. 


62  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

The  Intrepid  Tartarin  stood  stock-still  in  the 
middle  of  the  highroad.  .  .  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  "  Pooh !  "  he  said  to  himself, 
"  they  are  only  hoaxing.  .  .  They  have  n't  killed 
anything  at  all."     And  he  continued  his  way. 

Already  the  houses  were  becoming  fewer ;  pas- 
sengers also.  Night  was  falling;  objects  grew 
dim.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  walked  on  for  an- 
other half-hour.  Then  he  stopped.  .  .  It  was 
dark  night  now.  Night  without  a  moon,  though 
studded  with  stars.  No  one  was  on  the  road.  .  . 
Nevertheless,  the  hero  reflected  that  lions  were 
not  stage-coaches,  and  did  not  always  follow  the 
highroad.  Consequently  he  flung  himself  across 
country.  .  .  At  every  step  ditches,  brambles, 
briers.  No  matter !  on  he  went.  .  .  Then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  halt !  '*  There 's  lion  in  the  air  about 
here,"  thought  the  worthy  man;  and  he  sniffed 
strongly  to  right  and  left. 


Pail !  Pan  /  63 


V. 

Pan  /  Pan  / 

*TWAS  a  great  wild  desert,  all  bristling  with 
fantastic  plants,  those  eastern  plants  which  look 
like  savage  beasts.  Beneath  the  tempered  light 
of  stars  their  lengthened  shadows  crossed  the 
ground  in  all  directions.  To  right  lay  the  heavy 
and  confused  mass  of  a  mountain,  —  Atlas  per- 
haps !  .  .  To  left,  the  invisible  sea,  rolling,  growl- 
ing .  .  .  the  very  spot  to  tempt  wild  beasts.  .  . 

One  gun  laid  out  before  him,  the  other  in  his 
hands,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  knelt,  one  knee  to 
earth,  and  waited.  .  .  He  waited  an  hour,  two  hours 
.  .  .  Nothing !  .  .  Then  he  remembered  that  in  the 
books  no  great  lion-hunters  ever  went  out  with- 
out a  little  kid,  which  they  fastened  a  few  steps  in 
front  of  them  and  forced  to  cry  by  pulling  its  paw 
with  twine.  Not  having  a  kid  the  Tarasconese 
bethought  him  of  trying  an  imitation,  and  he 
began  to  bleat  in  a  tremulous  voice :  "  Mea ! 
Mea !  .  ." 

At  first  very  softly,  because  at  the  bottom  of  his 
soul  he  was  half  afraid  that  the  lion  might  hear 
him  .  .  .  then,  as  no  lion  came,  he  bleated  louder: 
"  Mea  !  .  .  Mea !  .  ."  Still  nothing !  .  .  Impatiently 
he  tried  again,  louder,  and  over  and  over  again ; 


64  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Mea !  .  .  Mea !  .  .  Mea !  .  ."  with  such  force  that 
the  kid  in  the  end  appeared  to  be  an  ox.  .  . 

All  of  a  sudden,  a  few  steps  in  front  of  him, 
something  black  and  gigantic  appeared.  He 
stopped  bleating.  .  .  The  thing  stooped,  smelt 
the  earth,  bounded,  rolled  over,  sprang  away, 
then  returned  and  stopped  short  .  .  .  't  was  the 
lion,  not  a  doubt  of  it !  .  .  His  four  short  legs 
were  now  quite  visible,  also  his  formidable  shoul- 
ders and  two  eyes,  two  great  eyes  shining  out  of 
the  darkness.  .  .  Take  aim  !  pan  !  pan  !  .  .  'T  was 
done.  Then,  instantly,  one  bound  backward,  with 
the  hunting-knife  ready. 

To  Tartarin's  shot  a  terrible  howl  responded. 

*'  He 's  got  it ! "  cried  the  intrepid  hunter,  and 
planting  himself  squarely  on  his  two  stout  legs  he 
prepared  to  receive  the  beast.  But  the  beast  get- 
ting more  than  it  reckoned,  fled  at  a  triple  gal- 
lop, roaring.  .  .  Tartarin,  however,  did  not  stir. 
He  awaited  the  female  .  .  .  just  as  the  books  say. 

Unhappily  the  female  did  not  come.  At  the 
end  of  two  or  three  hours  of  expectation  Tartarin 
grew  weary.  The  ground  was  damp ;  the  night 
grew  cold ;  the  sea-breeze  stung  him. 

**  Suppose  I  take  a  nap  while  awaiting  the 
dawn?"  thought  he;  and  then,  in  order  to  avoid 
rheumatism,  he  had  recourse  to  the  shelter-tent.  .  . 
But  the  devil  was  in  it !  that  shelter-tent  was  con- 
structed on  a  system  so  ingenious,  so  very  in- 
genious, that  he  could  not  succeed  in  opening  it. 

In  vain  he  wrestled  and  sweated  for  an  hour; 
that   damned   tent    would    not    open.  .  .     I    have 


Pan  !  Pan  I  65 

known  umbrellas  amuse  themselves  in  torrential 
rains  by  playing  just  such  tricks.  .  .  Weary  of  the 
struggle  Tartarin  flung  that  utensil  to  earth  and 
lay  upon  it  swearing,  like  the  true  Provencal  that 
he  was.  .  . 

"  Ta^  ta,  ray  ta  Tarata  !  .  ." 

"What's  that?"  cried  Tartarin,  waking  with  a 
start. 

It  was  the  bugles  of  the  chasseurs  d'Afrique 
sounding  reveillee  in  the  barracks  at  Mustapha.  .  . 
The  lion-killer,  stupefied,  rubbed  his  eyes.  .  .  He 
had  thought  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  desert !  .  . 
Do  you  know  where  he  was?  In  a  bed  of  arti- 
chokes, between  a  patch  of  cabbage  and  a  patch 
of  beetroots. 

His  Sahara  had  vegetables.  .  .  Close  to  him,  on 
the  pretty  green  slope  of  Upper  Mustapha,  the 
pure  white  Algerine  villas  were  shining  in  the 
glow  of  the  rising  sun;  you  might  have  thought 
yourself  in  the  environs  of  Marseilles,  amid  the 
bastidcs  and  the  bastidoiis. 

The  commonplace,  kitchen-garden  physiognomy 
of  the  landscape  about  him  amazed  the  poor  man 
and  put  him  out  of  temper. 

**  These  people  are  crazy,"  he  said  to  himself, 
'*  to  plant  artichokes  close  to  lions  ...  for  ...  I 
certainly  did  not  dream  it  .  .  .  lions  come  here.  .  . 
And  here  's  the  proof.  .  ." 

The  proof —  'twas  the  blood-stains  left  by  the 
beast  as  it  fled  away.  Following  this  bloody  trail, 
his  eye  on  the  watch,  his  revolver  in  his  fist,  the 
valiant  Tarasconese  came,  from  artichoke  to  arti- 


66  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

choke,  to  a  little  field  of  oats.  .  .  On  the  trampled 
stalks,  in  a  pool  of  blood,  lay  upon  its  flank  with  a 
wound  in  its  head,  a  .  .  .     Guess  what ! 

No  !  a  jackass ;  one  of  those  tiny  little  donkeys 
so  common  in  Algiers,  which  go  by  the  name  over 
there  oi  bourriquots. 


Arrival  of  the  Female,  67 


VI. 

Arrival  of  the  female.     Terrible  combat. 
The  Rendezvous  of  the  '■'•  Lapins^"* 

The  first  feeling  of  Tartarin  at  the  sight  of  his 
unlucky  victim  was  one  of  vexation.  There  is  such 
a  difference  between  a  lion  and  a  jackass !  .  .  His 
second  emotion  was  altogether  pity.  The  poor 
donkey  was  so  pretty,  he  looked  so  good  !  The 
skin  of  his  flanks,  still  warm,  was  crinkling  like  a 
wave.  Tartarin  knelt  down,  and  with  the  end  of 
his  Algerine  waistband  he  tried  to  stanch  the 
blood  of  the  unfortunate  animal ;  and  the  sight  of 
this  great  man  succouring  the  little  jackass  was 
really  the  most  touching  thing  you  can  imagine. 

At  the  silken  contact  of  the  waistbelt,  the  donkey, 
which  had  still  about  a  farthing's  worth  of  life  left 
in  him,  opened  a  great  gray  eye  and  shook  his 
long  ears  once  or  twice,  as  if  to  say :  "  Thank  you  ! 
thank  you  !  .  ."  Then  a  last  convulsion  stirred  him 
from  head  to  tail  and  he  moved  no  more. 

**  Noiraud  !  Noiraud  !  "  suddenly  cried  a  voice 
that  was  choked  with  anxiety.  At  the  same 
moment  the  bushes  in  a  neighbouring  coppice 
rustled.  .  .  Tartarin  had  scarcely  time  to  rise  and 
put  himself  on  guard.  .  .     'Twas  the  female  ! 

She  came,  terrible  and  bellowing,  under  the 
form  of  an  old  Alsatian  woman  in  a  turban,  armed 


68  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

with  a  great  red  umbrella,  and  demanding  back 
her  donkey  from  the  echoes  of  Algeria.  Certainly 
it  would  have  been  better  for  Tartarin  to  have  had 
to  do  with  a  lioness  in  her  fury  than  with  this  ma- 
lignant old  woman.  Vainly  did  the  poor  man  try 
to  make  her  understand  the  thing  ju$t  as  it  hap- 
pened. When  he  told  her  that  he  had  taken  Noi- 
raud  for  a  lion  the  old  woman  thought  he  was 
laughing  at  her,  and  emitting  an  energetic  "  Tar- 
teijle  ! "  she  fell  upon  our  hero  with  the  red  um- 
brella. Tartarin,  a  little  confused,  defended  him- 
self as  best  he  could,  warded  her  blows  with  his 
carbine,  puffed,  sweated,  and  bounded  around, 
crying  out :  "  But,  madame !,  .  .  but,  madame.  .  .  " 
Va  te  promener  i  Madame  was  deaf,  and  proved 
it. 

Happily,  a  third  person  appeared  upon  the 
battle-field.  This  was  the  husband  of  the  old 
woman,  Alsatian  himself,  a  tavern-keeper,  and  a 
very  good  reckoner  besides.  When  he  saw  with 
whom  he  had  to  do,  and  that  the  murderer  asked 
no  better  than  to  pay  the  value  of  the  victim,  he 
disarmed  his  spouse  and  they  came  to  terms. 

Tartarin  paid  two  hundred  francs;  the  donkey 
was  worth  ten.  That  is  the  price  current  of  bour- 
riquots  in  the  Arabian  markets.  Then  they  buried 
poor  Noiraud  at  the  roots  of  a  fig-tree,  and  the 
Alsatian,  in  high  good  humour  at  seeing  the  colour 
of  Tarasconese  money,  invited  the  hero  to  break  a 
crust  at  his  tavern,  which  was  only  a  few  steps  dis- 
tant, at  the  side  of  the  highway. 

Algerine  huntsmen  were  in  the  habit  of  dining 


Arrival  of  the  Female,  69 

there  every  Sunday,  for  the  plain  was  brimful  of 
game,  and  for  a  couple  of  leagues  around  the  town 
there  was  no  better  place  for  rabbits. 

"And  lions?"  asked  Tartarin. 

The  Alsatian  looked  at  him,  much  surprised. 
"  Lions?  "  he  said. 

*'Yes  .  .  .  lions  .  .  .  don't  you  see  them  some- 
times?" said  poor  Tartarin,  with  rather  less  assur- 
ance. 

The  tavern-keeper  burst  out  laughing. 

**  Ha  !  good  !  no,  thank  you.  .  .  Lions !  .  .  what 
should  we  do  with  Hons?" 

"Are  there  no  Hons  in  Algeria?" 

"Faith!  I  never  saw  any  .  .  .  And  yet  I  have 
lived  over  twenty  years  in  the  province ;  though  I 
think  I  have  heard  tell  .  .  .  seems  to  me  it  was  in 
the  newspaper.  .  .  But  that 's  ever  so  far  off,  down 
there,  in  Southern  Africa.  .  ." 

At  this  moment  they  reached  the  tavern.  A 
suburban  tavern,  such  as  we  see  at  Vanves  or 
Pantin,  with  a  withered  bough  above  the  door, 
billiard-cues  painted  on  the  walls,  and  this  inoffen- 
sive sign :  — 

THE  RENDEZ-VOUS   OF  LAPINS. 

The  Rendez-vous  of  Lapins !  .  .  O  Bravida ! 
What  recollections ! 


JO  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


VII. 

f 

History  of  an  omnibus j  of  a  Moorish  dame^ 
and  of  a  chaplet  of  jasmine  flowers. 

This  first  adventure  would  have  been  enough  to 
discourage  many  persons ;  but  men  of  Tartarin's 
stamp  do  not  allow  themselves  to  be  so  easily 
beaten  back. 

*'The  lions  are  in  the  South,"  thought  he; 
*'  very  good !  then  to  the  South  I  will  go." 

And  as  soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  last  mouth- 
ful he  rose,  thanked  his  host,  embraced  the  old 
woman  without  rancour,  shed  a  last  tear  to  the 
luckless  Noiraud,  and  started  as  fast  as  possible 
for  Algiers  with  the  firm  intention  of  buckling  his 
trunks  and  departing  that  very  same  day  for  the 
South. 

Unfortunately,  the  highroad  to  Mustapha  ap- 
peared to  have  lengthened  since  the  previous 
evening;  there  was  such  a  sun,  and  such  dust! 
the  shelter-tent  was  so  heavy !  .  .  Tartarin  felt  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  return  to  the  town  on  foot, 
so  he  made  a  sign  to  the  first  omnibus  that  passed 
him  and  got  into  it.  .  . 

Ah !  poor  Tartarin  of  Tarascon !  how  much 
better  for  his  name,  for  his  fame,  had  he  not 
entered  that  fatal  and  lengthy  vehicle,  but  continued 


History  of  an  Omnibus,  71 

his  pedestrian  way,  at  the  risk  of  falling  asphyx- 
iated under  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere,  the 
shelter-tent,  and  those  ponderous  double-barrelled 
rifled  guns.  .  . 

Tartarin  having  got  in,  the  omnibus  was  full. 
At  the  farther  end  was  a  vicar  of  the  Church  with 
his  nose  in  his  breviary,  and  a  big  black  beard. 
Opposite  sat  a  young  Moorish  merchant,  smoking 
thick  cigarettes.  Next,  a  Maltese  sailor  and  four 
or  five  Moorish  ladies,  masked  and  swathed  in 
white  linen,  of  whom  nothing  could  be  seen  but 
their  eyes.  These  ladies  had  just  been  performing 
their  devotions  in  the  cemetery  of  Abd-el-Kader ; 
but  that  visit  of  mourning  did  not  seem  to  have 
saddened  them.  They  were  heard  to  laugh  and 
chatter  to  one  another  behind  their  masks,  all  the 
while  sucking  sugar-plums. 

Tartarin  perceived  that  they  looked  at  him 
much.  One  especially,  the  one  who  was  seated  in 
front  of  him,  planted  her  eyes  upon  his  and  never 
withdrew  them  the  whole  way.  Though  the  lady 
was  veiled,  the  vivacity  of  that  great  black  eye, 
lengthened  by  khol,  a  deHcate,  delightful  wrist 
laden  with  bracelets  seen  from  time  to  time  amid 
the  veils,  all  —  even  to  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the 
graceful,  almost  infantine  motions  of  her  head  — 
all  told  that  behind  those  veils  was  something 
young,  lovely,  adorable.  .  .  The  unhappy  Tartarin 
did  not  know  where  to  hide  himself  The  mute 
caress  of  those  beauteous  eyes  of  Orient  troubled 
him,  agitated  him,  made  him  feel  like  dying;  he 
was  hot,  he  was  cold.  .  . 


72  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

To  complete  his  emotion,  the  lady's  slipper  took 
part  in  the  afifair.  Over  his  heavy  hunting-boots 
he  felt  it  gliding,  that  dainty  slipper,  gliding  and 
frisking  like  a  little  red  mouse.  .  .  What  must  he 
do?  Respond  of  course  to  that  look,  to  that  pres- 
sure I  Yes,  but  the  consequences.  .  .  A  love-in- 
trigue in  Orient !  why,  it  is  something  terrifying !  .  . 
And  the  brave  Tarasconese,  with  his  romantic, 
Southern  imagination,  saw  himself  faUing  into  the 
hands  of  eunuchs,  decapitated,  or,  worse  still,  sown 
up  in  a  leathern  sack  and  rolling  in  the  sea,  his 
head  beside  him.  Such  thoughts  chilled  him  a 
good  deal.  Meanwhile  the  little  slipper  continued 
its  play,  and  the  two  eyes  opposite  opened  wide 
upon  him  like  black  velvet  flowers,  as  if  to  say : 

"  Gather  us  !  .  .  " 

The  omnibus  stopped.  They  were  now  in  the 
Theatre  square,  at  the  entrance  of  the  rue  Bab- 
Azoun.  One  by  one,  impeded  by  their  full  trou- 
sers and  gathering  their  veils  around  them  with 
native  grace,  the  Moorish  ladies  descended  from 
the  omnibus.  Tartarin's  opposite  neighbour  rose 
last,  and  in  rising  her  face  came  so  near  to  that  of 
the  hero  that  he  breathed  her  breath,  a  veritable 
bouquet  of  youth  and  jasmine,  musk  and  pastry. 

The  Tarasconese  hero  could  not  resist.  Intoxi- 
cated with  love  and  ready  for  all,  he  sprang  out 
after  the  Moorish  lady.  .  .  At  the  rattle  of  his 
caparisons  she  turned  her  head,  put  a  finger  on 
her  mask  as  if  to  say  '*  hush !  "  and  quickly,  with 
the  other  hand,  tossed  him  a  little  perfumed  chap- 
let    of  jasmine    flowers.     Tartarin    of   Tarascon 


History  of  an  Omnibus,  "jt, 

stooped  to  pick  it  up ;  but  as  our  hero  was  rather 
ponderous  and  much  weighted  down  with  his 
armour,  the  operation  was  long. 

When  he  rose,  the  jasmine  chaplet  on  his  heart, 
the  Moorish  lady  had  disappeared. 


74  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


^^  *  VIII. 


/t':    f% 


Lions  of  Atlas,  sleep  in  peace! 


Lions  of  Atlas,  sleep  !  Sleep  tranquilly  in  the 
depths  of  your  lairs  among  the  aloes  and  the 
cactuses.  .  .  For  some  days  yet  you  will  not  be 
massacred  by  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  At  the  pres- 
ent moment  his  paraphernalia  of  war  —  chests  of 
weapons,  pharmacy,  shelter-tent  and  aliments  — 
repose  unpacked  in  a  corner  of  room  No.  36, 
Hotel  de  I'Europe. 

Sleep,  ye  grand  ruddy  lions  !  sleep  without  fear. 
The  hero  seeks  his  Moorish  lady.  Ever  since  that 
trip  in  the  omnibus  the  hapless  man  perpetually 
feels  upon  his  foot,  the  gigantic  foot  of  a  trapper, 
the  lively  friskings  of  a  little  red  mouse ;  and  the 
sea-breeze,  kissing  his  Hps,  is  ever  perfumed  —  do 
what  he  will  —  with  an  amorous  odour  of  anise- 
seed  and  pastry. 

He  wants  his  Maugrabine  ! 

But  to  get  her  is  not  so  easy !  To  find  in  a 
city  of  a  hundred  thousand  souls  a  person  of  whom 
one  knows  nothing  but  her  breath,  her  slippers, 
and  her  eyes!  None  but  a  Tarasconese,  smitten 
by  love,  would  be  capable  of  attempting  such  an 
enterprise. 


ly  ^[^(s^-^i^'>^^*^y^ 


Lions  of  Atlas,  Sleep  in  Peace  I       75 

The  terrible  point  was  that  all  Moorish  women 
look  alike  behind  those  great  veils  of  theirs ;  more- 
over, these  ladies  seldom  go  out,  and  if  you  want 
to  see  them  you  must  go  to  the  upper  town,  the 
Arab  town,  the  town  of  the  Teurs. 

A  regular  cut-throat  place  that  upper  town. 
Little  narrow  black  alleys  clambering  upward  on 
steps  between  two  rows  of  mysterious  houses, 
whose  overhanging  roofs,  meeting  together,  form 
a  tunnel.  Low  doors,  small  windows,  silent,  sad, 
and  barred.  And  then,  to  right  and  left  a  mass  of 
booths,  very  dark,  where  savage  Teurs  with  pirate 
heads  —  whites  of  eyes  and  shining  teeth  —  smoke 
their  long  pipes  and  talk  in  low  voices  to  one  an- 
other as  if  concerting  evil  deeds. 

To  say  that  our  Tartarin  threaded  this  formi- 
dable city  without  emotion  would  be  false.  He  was, 
on  the  contrary,  much  agitated,  and  along  these 
gloomy  alleys,  where  his  big  stomach  filled  all  the 
space,  the  worthy  man  advanced  with  great  pre- 
caution, watchful  eyes,  and  finger  on  the  trigger  of 
his  revolver.  Precisely  as  he  did  at  Tarascon  on 
his  way  to  the  club.  At  every  turn  he  expected 
to  receive  upon  his  back  an  avalanche  of  eunuchs 
and  janissaries ;  but  the  desire  to  see  once  more  his 
Moorish  lady  gave  him  audacity  and  the  strength 
of  a  giant. 

For  eight  consecutive  days  the  intrepid  Tartarin 
never  left  that  upper  town.  Sometimes  standing 
sentinel  in  front  of  the  Moorish  baths,  awaiting 
the  hour  when  the  ladies  issued  in  clusters,  shiver- 
ing and  fragrant  with  the  bath ;  sometimes  crouch- 


76  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

ing  at  the  door  of  the  mosques,  sweating  and 
puffing  in  the  effort  to  get  off  his  stout  boots  be- 
fore entering  the  sanctuary.  .  . 

Often,  at  nightfall,  when  returning  broken- 
hearted at  making  no  discovery  in  bath  or  mosque, 
the  hero,  passing  beside  those  Moorish  houses, 
could  hear  monotonous  chants,  the  stifled  tones  of 
a  guitar,  the  roll  of  a  tambourine,  the  silvery  laugh 
of  women,  that  made  his  heart  beat. 

"  She  may  be  there !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

Then,  if  the  street  was  deserted,  he  approached 
the  house,  raised  the  heavy  knocker  of  the  postern 
door,  and  gave  a  timid  rap.  .  .  Instantly  the  songs, 
the  laughter  ceased.  Behind  the  wall  nothing  was 
heard  but  vague  little  whisperings  as  in  a  sleeping 
dove-cote. 

"  Keep  firm  !  "  thought  the  hero.  "  Something 
will  happen  to  me  !  " 

That  which  usually  happened  to  him  was  a  pot- 
ful  of  cold  water  on  his  head,  or  a  handful  of 
orange-peel  and  Barbary  figs.  .  .  Never  anything 
worse.  .  . 

Lions  of  Atlas,  sleep  in  peace  ! 


Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro.        77 


IX. 

Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro, 

For  two  long  weeks  the  unfortunate  Tartarin 

'\  <    searched  for  his  Moorish  lady,  and,  in  all  proba- 

jT/  /  bility,  he  would  be  searching  for  her  still  if  the 

//  ^    Providence  of  lovers  had  not  come  to  his  assistance 

^'     ■     in  the  shape  of  a  nobleman  of  Montenegro.     In 

this  wise :  — 

fy'^Saturday  night  during  the  winter  the 
great  theatre  of  Algiers  gives  its  masked  ball, 
neither  more  nor  less  like  the  Opera.  It  is,  in 
fact,  the  eternal  and  insipid  masked  ball  of  the 
provinces.  In  the  theatre  itself,  poor  company ;  a 
few  stray  waifs  from  Bullier  or  the  Casino,  foolish 
virgins  following  the  army,  ragged  revellers, 
d^bardeurs  the  worse  for  wear,  and  five  or  six 
little  Mahonese  washerwomen  on  their  promotion, 
but  still  retaining  from  their  days  of  virtue  a  flavour 
of  garlic  and  saffron  sauces.  .  .  The  real  coup 
d'ceil  is  not  there.  It  is  in  the  foyer,  transformed 
for  this  occasion  into  a  gambHng-room.  .  .  A 
nervous,  variegated  crowd  jostle  around  those  long 
green  tables:  turcos  on  furlough  are  staking  in 
coppers  their  advanced  pay,  Moorish  merchants 
from  the  upper  town,  negroes,  Maltese,  settlers 
from  the  interior  coming  forty  leagues  to  risk  upon 


78  Tartarin  of  Tarasco7i, 

an  ace  the  price  of  a  cart  or  a  couple  of  oxen  .  .  . 
all  quiverings  pale,  with  clenched  teeth  and  that 
singular  glance  of  the  gambler,  dim,  sidelong,  and 
become  a  squint  by  dint  of  fixing  the  eyes  so  long 
on  the  same  card. 

Farther  on,  are  tribes  of  Algerine  Jews  discuss- 
ing the  game  en  famille.  The  men  are  in  Eastern 
costume  hideously  accompanied  with  blue  stock- 
ings and  velvet  caps.  The  women,  puffy  and  pale, 
stand  rigidly  erect  in  their  tight  gold  stomachers. 
Grouped  around  the  tables  the  whole  tribe  bawl, 
lay  their  heads  together,  count  upon  their 
fingers,  and  stake  little.  Now  and  then,  but 
rarely,  and  after  long  confabulation,  some  old 
patriarch  with  a  Father-Eternal  beard  detaches 
himself  from  the  group  and  goes  to  the  table  to 
risk  the  family  stake.  .  .  Then,  as  long  as  that 
game  lasts,  a  scintillation  of  Hebraic  eyes  falls 
upon  the  table,  terrible,  black-magnet  eyes,  which 
make  those  bits  of  gold  on  the  green  cloth  quiver, 
and  end  by  gently  drawing  them  in  as  if  by  a 
thread. .  . 

Then  quarrels,  battles,  oaths  of  all  nations, 
savage  cries  in  every  tongue,  knives  unsheathed, 
police  arriving,  money  lost.  .  . 

T  was  into  the  midst  of  such  saturnalia  that  our 
great  Tartarin  wandered  one  evening  in  search  of 
forgetfulness  and  peace  of  mind. 

The  hero  was  walking  alone  through  the  crowd, 
thinking  of  his  Moorish  flame,  when  suddenly,  at  a 
gambling-table,  above  the  clink  of  gold,  two  irri- 
tated voices  rose :  — 


Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro.        79 

*'  I  tell  you  I  'm  lacking  twenty  francs,  — 
M'sieu !  .  ." 

"  M'sieu  !  .  ." 

"Well,  what?  .  .  M'sieu!  " 

"  Know  to  whom  you  speak,  M'sieu  !  " 

"  That 's  what  I  wish  to  know,  M'sieu  !  " 

"  I  am  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro, 
M'sieu !  .  ." 

At  that  name  Tartarin,  quite  excited,  pushed 
through  the  crowd  and  put  himself  in  the  front 
rank  proud  and  happy  at  finding  his  prince,  that 
polite  Montenegrin  prince  whose  acquaintance  he 
had  begun  to  make  on  the  packet-boat.  .  . 

Unfortunately,  the  title  of  Highness,  so  dazzling 
to  our  worthy  Tarasconese,  produced  not  the 
slightest  impression  on  the  cavalry  officer  with 
whom  the  prince  was  having  his  skirmish. 

"What  of  that?  .  ."  sneered  the  military  gentle- 
man. "  Gregory  of  Montenegro  "  (talking  to  the 
gallery),  —  "does  any  one  know  him?  .  .  No 
one !  .  ." 

Tartarin,  very  indignant,  made  one  step  forward. 

"  Pardon  me.  .  .  I  know  XhQ  prehicey'  he  said  in  a 
very  firm  voice  and  his  finest  Tarasconese  accent. 

The  cavalry  officer  looked  him  full  in  the  face 
for  a  moment  and  then  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders :  — 

"Well,  well,  all  right.  .  .  Share  that  twenty 
francs  between  you,  and  we  '11  say  no  more  about 
it." 

With  that  he  turned  his  back  upon  them  and 
was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


So  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

The  fiery  Tartarin  attempted  to  rush  after  him 
but  the  prince  prevented. 

'*  Let  him  alone  ...  it  is  my  affair." 

And  taking  our  hero  by  the  arm  he  led  him 
rapidly  from  t\\Q  foyer. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  the  open  street  Prince 
Gregory  of  Montenegro  took  off  his  hat,  offered 
his  hand  to  his  defender,  and,  vaguely  recalling  his 
name,  began  in  a  vibrant  voice :  — 

*'  Monsieur  Barbarin  .  .  ." 

"  Tartarin,"  whispered  the  other,  timidly. 

"  Tartarin,  Barbarin,  no  matter  which  !  .  .  Be- 
tween us  two  for  life,  or  death,  henceforth !  " 

And  the  noble  Montenegrin  shook  his  hand  with 
savage  energy.     You  can  imagine  Tartarin's  pride. 

"  Prei'nce  !  .  .     Preince  !  "  he  repeated  deliriously. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  two  gentle- 
^ — men  were  installed  at  the  Cafe  des  Platanes,  an 
agreeable  night  resort  with  terraces  overhang- 
ing the  sea,  and  there,  before  a  strong  Russian 
salad  washed  down  with  Crescia,  they  renewed 
Acquaintance. 

You  can  imagine  nothing  more  seductive  than 
this  Montenegrin  prince.  Thin,  slender,  hair  curl- 
ing and  crimped  with  irons,  face  shaved  as  if  with 
a  pumice-stone,  starred  with  mysterious  orders, 
his  eyes  shrewd,  his  gesture  coaxing,  his  accent 
vaguely  Italian  (which  gave  him  a  sham  air  of 
Mazarin  without  a  moustache)  ;  well  versed,  more- 
over, in  the  Latin  languages  and  quoting  on  all 
occasions  Tacitus,  Horace,  and  the  Commentaries. 
Such  was  Gregory,  Prince  of  Montenegro.  \ 


Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro,        8i 

Of  an  old  hereditary  race,  his  brothers,  it  ap- 
peared, had  banished  him  when  ten  years  of  age 
on  account  of  his  Hberal  opinions,  and  since  then 
he  had  roamed  the  world,  for  his  education  and 
pleasure,  as  a  philosophical  royalty.  .  .  Curious 
coincidence !  the  prince  had  spent  three  years  in 
Tarascon,  and  when  Tartarin  expressed  surprise 
at  never  having  met  him  at  the  club  or  on  the 
Esplanade,  "  I  went  out  but  little,"  his  Highness 
said  evasively.  And  Tartarin  was  discreetly  afraid 
to  question  him  further.  All  great  existences  have 
mysterious  sides  !  .  . 

But,  at  any  rate,  a  very  good  prince  this  Gregory 
of  Montenegro.  iWhile  sipping  the  rosy  wine  of 
Crescia,  he  listened  patiently  to  Tartarin's  tale  of 
his  Moorish  love ,  he  even  promised,  knowing  all 
those  ladies,  to  find  her  promptly^ 

They  drank  deep  and  long.  They  toasted  "  The 
ladies  of  Algiers  !  "  and  "  Montenegro  free  !  " 

Outside,  beneath  the  terrace,  rolled  the  sea,  and 
the  waves  in  the  darkness  beat  the  shore  with  the 
sound  of  wet  sheets  flapping.  The  air  was  warm, 
the  heavens  filled  with  stars,  the  nightingales  were 
singing  in  the  plane-trees. 
— V^It  was  Tartarin  who  paid  the  bill. 


82  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  ^  ( 


Tell  me  the  name  of  thy  father ,  and  I  will  tell 
thee  the  name  of  this  flower. 

There  is  no  one  who  can  land  his  fish  so  easily 
as  a  Montenegrin  prince. 

On  the  morrow  of  this  evening  at  the  Cafe  des 
Platanes,  at  dawn  of  day,  Prince  Gregory  appeared 
in  Tartarin's  chamber. 

"  Quick  !  dress  yourself  quickly !  .  .  Your  Moor- 
ish lady  is  found.  .  .  Her  name  is  BaTa.  .  .  Twenty 
years  old,  pretty  as  heart  could  wish,  and  already 
a  widow.  .  ." 

**  Widow  !  .  .  what  luck  !  "  joyfully  exclaimed 
Tartarin,  who  mistrusted  the  husbands  of  Orient. 

**  Yes,  but  closely  watched  by  a  brother." 

"  Ah  !  the  deuce  !  .  ." 

*'  A  savage  Moor  who  peddles  pipes  in  the 
Orleans  bazaar.  .  ." 

Silence. 

*'  Pooh  !  "  resumed  the  prince,  "  you  are  not  the 
man  to  be  frightened  at  so  little.  Besides,  we  can 
probably  get  round  that  pirate  by  buying  his 
pipes.  .  .  Come,  make  haste,  dress  yourself.  .  . 
Lucky  dog !  " 

Pale,  agitated,  his  heart  full  of  love,  Tartarin 
sprang  from  the  bed,  and  hastily  buttoning  his 
vast  flannel  drawers, — 


Tell  Me  the  Name  of  Thy  Father,     83 

"What  must  I  do?  "  he  said. 

"  Simply  write  to  the  lady  and  ask  for  a 
rendezvous." 

"Then  she  knows  French?"  exclaimed  the 
artless  Tartarin,  with  a  look  of  disappointment,  for 
he  dreamed  of  his  Orient  unmixed. 

"  Not  one  word  of  it,"  replied  the  prince,  imper- 
turbably.  .  .  "  But  you  will  dictate  the  letter  to 
me  and  I  shall  translate  it." 

"  Oh,  prince,  what  goodness  !  " 

And  Tartarin  began  to  walk  up  and  down  his 
room  with  long  strides,  silent  and  collecting  his 
thoughts. 

You  can  well  suppose  that  letters  are  not  written 
to  a  Moorish  lady  of  Algiers  as  they  are  to  a 
grisette  of  Beaucaire.  Most  fortunately  our  hero 
possessed  the  fruits  of  a  varied  reading  which 
enabled  him,  by  amalgamating  the  Apache  rhetoric 
of  Gustave  Aimard's  Indians  with  Lamartine's 
*'  Voyage  en  Orient "  and  a  few  reminiscences  of 
the  "  Song  of  Songs,"  to  compose  the  most  truly 
oriental  letter  that  was  ever  written..  It  began 
with :  — 

"  Like  the  ostrich  on  the  sands  of  the  desert  —  " 

and  it  ended  with :  — 

"  Tell  me  the  name  of  thy  father,  and  I  will  tell  thee  the  name 
of  this  flower." 

To  this  missive,  the  romantic  Tartarin  would 
fain  have  added  a  bouquet  of  flowers  emblematical, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  East ;  but  Prince  Gregory 


84  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

thought  it  was  better  to  buy  pipes  of  the  brother, 
which  might  soften  the  savage  temper  of  that 
gentleman,  and  would  certainly  give  pleasure  to 
the  lady,  who  smoked  a  great  deal. 

"  Let  us  go  at  once  and  buy  the  pipes,"  cried 
Tartarin,  full  of  ardour. 

*'  No  !  .  .  no  !  .  .  Let  me  go  alone.  I  can  buy 
them  cheaper.  .  ." 

''What!  will  you  really?  .  .  Oh,  prince  .  .  . 
prince.  .  ."  And  the  worthy  man,  quite  con- 
fused, held  out  his  purse  to  the  obliging  Monte- 
negrin, urging  him  to  spare  nothing  to  please 
the  lady. 

Unfortunately  the  affair  —  though  well  started  — 
did  not  advance  as  rapidly  as  might  have  been 
expected.  Deeply  touched,  it  appeared,  by  Tar- 
tarin's  eloquence  and  already  three-parts  won,  the 
Moorish  lady  herself  desired  to  receive  him ;  but 
the  brother  had  scruples,  and  in  order  to  allay 
them  it  was  necessary  to  buy  dozens,  in  fact  many 
gross,  even  cargoes  of  pipes.  .  . 
^  *'  What  the  devil  can  Baia  do  with  all  those 
pipes?"  Tartarin  sometimes  asked  himself — but 
he  paid  all  the  same  and  never  haggled. 

At  last,  after  purchasing  mountains  of  pipes 
and  shedding  on  his  love  vast  floods  of  Oriental 
poesy,  a  rendezvous  was  obtained. 

I  need  not  tell  you  with  what  a  beating  heart 
the  Tarasconese  hero  prepared  himself;  with 
what  care  he  trimmed  and  glossed  and  perfumed 
that  harsh  beard  of  his  ;  not  forgetting  —  for  one 
should  foresee  everything  —  not  forgetting  to  slip 


Tell  Me  the  Name  of  Thy  Father.     85 

into  his  pocket  a  knuckle-duster  with  spikes  and 
two  or  three  revolvers. 

/  The  prince,  always  obliging,  came  to  the  first 
rendezvous  in  the  quality  of  interpreter.  The 
lady  lived  at  the  top  of  the  town.  Before  her 
door  a  young  Moor  some  thirteen  or  fourteen 
years  of  age  was  smoking  cigarettes.  This  was 
the  famous  Ali,  the  brother  in  question.  On 
seeing  the  arrival  of  the  visitors  he  gave  two  raps 
on  the  postern  door  and  retired  discreetly. 

The  door  was  opened.  A  negress  appeared, 
who,  without  uttering  a  single  word,  conducted 
the  two  gentlemen  across  a  narrow  courtyard  to  a 
cool  little  chamber  where  the  lady  awaited  them, 
half  rising  on  her  elbow  from  a  low  bed.  .  .  At  first 
sight,  she  seemed  to  Tartarin  much  shorter  and 
stouter  than  the  lady  of  the  omnibus.  .  .  Was  it 
she,  after  all?  .  .  But  this  suspicion  only  crossed 
the  hero's  brain  like  a  flash. 

The  lady  was  very  pretty,  lying  thus  with  bare 
feet  ;  her  plump  little  fingers  loaded  with  rings 
were  rosy  and  so  delicate ;  and  beneath  her  corse- 
let of  cloth  of  gold,  beneath  the  folds  of  her 
flowery  robe,  it  was  easy  to  divine  a  charming  per- 
son, rather  portly,  enticing  to  the  last  degree,  and 
rounded  in  all  its  angles.  .  .  The  amber  mouth- 
piece of  a  narghile  was  at  her  lips,  and  the  glow  of 
its  golden  smoke  enveloped  her. 

As  he  entered,  the  hero  laid  one  hand  upon  his 
heart  and  bowed,  as  Moorishly  as  possible,  rolling 
his  big  eyes  passionately.  .  .  Bafa  looked  at  him  a 
moment  without  saying  a  word ;  then,  letting  fall 


86  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

the  amber  mouthpiece,  she  threw  herself  back- 
ward and  hid  her  head  in  her  hands,  leaving 
nothing  visible  but  her  white  throat,  which  a  frantic 
laugh  caused  to  heave  and  dance  like  a  bag  of 
pearls. 


y 


Sidi  Tarfri  ben  Tarfru  d>'j 


Sidi  Tarfri  ben  Tarfri. 

If  you  should  enter,  of  an  evening,  any  one  of 
the  Algerine  cafes  in  the  upper  town  you  would 
hear  Moors  talking,  even  now,  with  many  winks 
>and  laughs,  of  a  certain  Sidi  Tart'ri  ben  Tart'ri,  an 
amiable  and  rich  European,  who  —  it  was  a  good 
many  years  ago  —  lived  in  the  upper  quarters  of 
,the  town  with  a  little  lady  of  the  population  named 
Baia. 

The  Sidi  Tart'ri  in  question,  who  has  left  such 
gay  memories  around  the  Kasbah,  is  no  other,  as 
the  reader  has  divined,  than  our  Tartarin.  .  . 

But  what  of  it?  We  find  the  like  in  the  lives 
of  saints  and  heroes,  —  hours  of  blindness,  confu- 
sion, weakness.  The  illustrious  Tarasconese  was 
not  more  exempt  than  others,  and  that  is  why, — 
for  the  space  of  two  months,  —  oblivious  of  lions 
and  of  glory,  he  became  intoxicated  with  oriental 
love  and  slept,  like  Hannibal  at  Capua,  in  the  soft 
elysium  of  Algiers  the  White. 
-  The  worthy  man  had  hired  in  the  heart  of  the 
Arab  town  a  pretty  little  native  house,  with  an 
interior  courtyard,  banana-trees,  fountains,  and 
cool  galleries.  He  lived  there,  far  from  tongues, 
with  his  Moorish  lady,  himself  a  Moor  from  head 


S8  Tartariii  of  Tarascon, 

to  foot,  puffing  all  day  long  at  his  narghile  and 
eating  sweetmeats  flavoured  with  musk. 

Stretched  upon  a  divan  before  him,  Baia,  guitar 
in  hand,  sang  monotonous  airs  through  her  nose, 
or,  the  better  to  amuse  her  lord  and  master,  danced 
the  stomach-dance,  holding  in  her  hand  a  little 
mirror  in  which  she  smiled  at  her  ivory  teeth  and 
made  various  grimaces. 

As  the  lady  did  not  know  one  word  of  French, 
nor  Tartarin  a  word  of  Arabic,  the  conversation 
was  apt  to  languish,  and  the  garrulous  Tarasconese 
had  time  to  do  penance  for  the  intemperate 
language  of  which  he  was  often  guilty  in  Bezu- 
quet's  pharmacy  and  the  shop  of  the  gunsmith 
Costecalde. 

But  such  repentance  was  not  without  its  charm ; 
't  was  a  species  of  voluptuous  spleen  to  say  nothing 
day  by  day  and  listen  to  the  gurgle  of  the  narghile, 
the  tinkle  of  the  guitar,  and  the  gentle  drip  of  the 
fountain  on  the  mosaics  of  the  courtyard. 

The  narghile,  the  bath,  and  love  filled  all  his 
life.  He  went  out  seldom.  Sometimes  Sidi  Tart'ri, 
mounted  on  a  mule,  his  lady  behind  him,  would 
go  to  eat  pomegranates  in  a  little  garden  he  had 
purchased  in  the  environs.  .  .  But  never,  oh,  never, 
would  he  descend  into  the  European  city.  With 
its  drunken  Zouaves,  its  alcazars  crammed  with 
officers,  and  its  everlasting  jangle  of  sabres  dragging 
along  the  arcades,  the  Algiers  that  lay  below  was 
to  him  as  intolerable  and  ugly  as  a  Western  guard- 
house. 
■~~-  In  short,  the  Tarasconese  was  happy.     Tartarin- 


Sidi  Tarfri  ben  Tart'ri,  89 

Sancho,  always  very  greedy  after  Turkish  confec- 
tionery, declared  himself  wholly  satisfied  with  his 
new  existence.  .  .  Tartarin-Quixote  did  certainly, 
now  and  then,  feel  some  trifling  remorse  when  he 
thought  of  Tarascon  and  all  his  fine  promises;  but 
it  did  not  last.  To  chase  away  such  sad  ideas 
nothing  was  needed  but  a  glance  from  Baia,  and  a 
spoonful  of  those  diaboHcal  sweetmeats,  odorif- 
erous and  muddling  as  Circe's  drinks. 

^>  In  the  evenings  Prince  Gregory  would  come  to 

r  talk  of  his  free  Montenegro.  .  .  Unwearied  in 
\  kindness,  this  amiable  noble  performed  in  Sidi 
^  Tart'ri's  house  the  functions  of  interpreter,  and  even 
those  of  steward  ;  and  all  for  nothing !  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  it.  .  .  Excepting  the  prince,  Tartarin 
received  none  but  Tetirs.  Those  pirates  with 
savage  heads,  who  formerly  frightened  him  in  the 
depths  of  their  dark  booths,  proved  to  be,  when 
he  knew  them,  harmless  shop-keepers,  embroid- 
erers, sellers  of  spices,  turners  of  pipe-stems,  all 
most  worthy  persons,  humble,  shrewd,  discreet, 
and  strong  at  cards.  Four  or  five  times  a  week 
these  gentry  would  come  and  spend  the  evening 
with  Sidi  Tart'ri,  win  his  money,  eat  his  sweet- 
meats, and,  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  retire  discreetly, 
giving  thanks  to  the  Prophet. 

After  their  departure,  Sidi  Tart'ri  and  his  faithful 
spouse  ended  the  evening  on  their  terrace,  a  broad 
white  terrace  that  was  really  the  roof  of  the  house 
and  commanded  the  whole  town.  All  around  them 
hundreds  of  other  white  terraces,  tranquil  in  the 
moonlight,  sloped   downward,  in  echelon,  to   the 


90  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

shore,  the  tinkle  of  their  guitars  rising  upward, 
borne  by  the  breeze. 

Suddenly,  like  a  bouquet  of  stars,  a  grand, 
clear  melody  diffused  itself  in  ether,  and  on  the 
minaret  of  a  neighbouring  mosque  stood  a  stately 
muezzin,  his  white  form  outhned  on  the  deep,  dark 
blue  of  the  night  as  he  chanted  the  glory  of  Allah 
in  a  marvellous  voice  that  filled  the  horizon. 

Instantly  Baia  let  fall  her  guitar,  and  her  great 
eyes,  turned  to  the  muezzin,  seemed  to  drink  in  his 
prayer  with  rapture.  As  long  as  the  chant  lasted, 
she  stood  there  quivering,  in  ecstasy,  like  an  East- 
ern Saint  Teresa.  .  .  Tartarin,  all  emotion,  looked 
at  her  as  she  prayed,  and  thought  to  himself  that  it 
must  be  a  fine  and  strong  religion  that  could  cause 
such  ecstasies  of  faith  as  that. 

Tarascon !  veil  thy  face !  thy  Tartarin  is  think- 
ing to  make  himself  a  renegade. 


TJiey  Write  to  Us  from  Tarascon,     91 


They  write  to  us  from  Tarascon, 

On  a  beautiful  afternoon  of  azure  skies  and  balmy 
breezes,  Sidi  Tart'ri,  astride  of  his  mule,  was  re- 
turning all  alone  from  his  little  garden.  .  .  With 
his  legs  parted  by  large  bags  of  matweed  big  with 
lemons  and  watermelons,  his  body  rocking  to  the 
sound  of  his  own  spurs  and  yielding  itself  wholly 
to  the  swaying  of  the  mule,  the  worthy  man  was 
making  his  way  through  a  lovely  landscape,  both 
hands  crossed  on  his  stomach,  and  he  himself 
three-fourths  asleep  from  warmth  and  comfort. 

All  of  a  sudden,  as  he  entered  the  town,  a  for- 
midable call  awoke  him. 

"  Hey !  who  's  this  ?  Why,  sure,  't  is  Monsieur 
Tartarin !  " 

At  the  name  of  Tartarin,  at  that  joyous  Southern 
accent,  the  Tarasconese  raised  his  head  and  saw, 
within  two  steps  of  him,  the  brave  tanned  face  of 
Maitre  Barbassou,  captain  of  the  "  Zouave,"  who 
was  drinking  absinthe  as  he  smoked  his  pipe  before 
the  door  of  a  little  caf6. 

"  Hey !  adieu,  Barbassou,"  cried  Tartarin,  stop- 
ping his  mule. 

Instead  of  replying,  Barbassou  gazed  at  the  rider 
for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  wide  open ;  then  off 


92  Tartariii  of  Tarascon, 

he  went  into  a  laugh,  and  such  a  laugh !  so  that 
Sidi  Tart'ri  sat  confused  behind  his  watermelons. 

"  Hey  !  a  turban  !  my  poor  Monsieur  Tartarin  !  . . 
Then  it  is  true  what  they  say  of  you  —  that  you 
have  made  yourself  a  Teur  ?  .  .  And  that  little 
Baia,  does  she  still  sing  Marco  la  Belle  ?  " 

"  Marco  la  Belle  !  "  cried  Tartarin,  indignantly. 
"  I  would  have  you  know,  captain,  that  the  person 
of  whom  you  speak  is  a  virtuous  Moorish  lady  who 
does  not  know  one  word  of  French." 

"  Baia  !  not  know  one  word  of  French?  Where 
do  you  come  from?  .  ." 

And  the  worthy  captain  began  to  laugh  louder 
than  ever. 

Then,  seeing  how  the  face  of  poor  Sidi  Tart'ri 
was  lengthening,  he  checked  himself. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  not  the  same,"  he 
said.  "Let's  say  Twas  mistaken.  .  .  Only,  don't 
you  see,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  would  do  well  to 
distrust  all  Algerine  Moorish  ladies  and  all  Mon- 
tenegrin princes !  .  ." 

Tartarin  rose  in  his  stirrups,  with  his  terrible 
grimace. 

*'  The  prince  is  my  friend,  captain." 

"  Well,  well,  don't  get  angry.  .  .  Won't  you 
take  an  absinthe?  No.  Any  message  for  home?  .  . 
Nothing  .  .  .  Well,  then  !  good-bye.  .  .  Oh  ! 
apropos,  here  's  some  good  French  tobacco,  and  if 
you  would  like  a  few  pipes  of  it  .  .  .  take  them ! 
take  them!  they'll  do  you  good...  None  of 
your  cursed  Oriental  tobacco  which  fuddles  one's 
brain." 


They   Write  to   Us  from  Tarascon,     93 

-je/  Thereupon  the  captain  returned  to  his  absinthe, 
and  Tartarin,  quite  pensive,  resumed  his  way  home 
at  a  slow  trot.  Although  his  great  soul  refused 
to  believe  a  word  of  them,  Barbassou's  insinua- 
tions saddened  him ;  besides,  those  accents  of 
home,  those  oaths  —  all,  all  awoke  within  him  a 
vague  remorse. 

Entering  his  house  he  found  no  one.  Ba'fa  was 
at  the  bath  .  .  .  the  negress  seemed  to  him  ugly, 
the  house  dismal.  .  . )  A  prey  to  indefinable  mel- 
ancholy, he  seated  himself  beside  the  fountain  and 
filled  a  pipe  with  Barbassou's  tobacco.  That 
tobacco  was  wrapped  in  a  fragment  of  the  "  Sema- 
phore." As  he  unfolded  it  his  eye  lighted  on  the 
name  of  his  native  town :  — 

"  They  write  us  from  Tarascon :  — 

"  'The  town  is  greatly  stirred.  Tartarin  the  lion-killer, 
who  started  to  hunt  the  great  felines  of  Africa,  has  sent  no 
news  of  his  doings  for  several  months.  .  .  What  has 
become  of  our  heroic  compatriot  ?  .  .  We  scarcely  dare 
to  ask,  knowing  as  we  do  that  ardent  spirit,  its  audacity, 
and  its  need  of  adventure.  .  .  Has  he,  like  others,  been 
engulfed  in  the  desert?  or  has  he  fallen  within  the  mur- 
derous jaws  of  those  monsters  of  Africa  whose  skins  he 
promised  to  the  municipality?  .  .  Terrible  uncertainty  ! 
Nevertheless,  certain  negro  merchants,  coming  to  the  fair 
at  Beaucaire,  assert  that  they  met  in  the  open  desert  a 
European  whose  description  corresponds  to  his,  and  who 
was  then  on  his  way  to  Timbuctoo.  .  .  May  God  pre- 
serve our  Tartarin  !  .  .'  " 

When  he  read  those  words  the  Tarasconese  hero 
blushed,  turned  pale,  and  shuddered.     All  Taras- 


94  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

con  appeared  before  him:  the  club,  the  cap- 
sportsmen,  the  green  arm-chair  at  Costecalde's, 
and  —  hovering,  like  a  spread-eagle,  above  all  else 
—  the  solemn  moustache  of  the  brave  Commander 
Bravida. 

Then,  beholding  himself  as  he  was,  basely  squat- 
ting on  his  mat  when  they  believed  him  in  process 
of  slaying  wild  beasts,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  felt 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  wept. 

Suddenly  the  hero  bounded  up. 

**  To  the  hons  !  to  the  lions  !  "  he  cried. 

And  springing  to  the  dusty  hole  where  slept  the 
shelter-tent,  the  pharmacy,  the  aliments,  the  case 
of  weapons,  he  dragged  them,  each  and  all,  to  the 
middle  of  the  courtyard. 

Tartarin-Sancho  had  expired.  Tartarin-Quixote 
alone  remained. 

There  was  only  time  to  inspect  his  war  material, 
to  arm  himself,  accoutre  himself,  pull  on  his  great 
boots,  write  a  line  to  the  prince|and  confide  to  him 
BaYa,  only  time  to  slip  a  few  blue  notes  (moistened 
with  tears)  into  the  same  envelope,  before  our  in- 
trepid hero  was  rolling  in  the  diligence  along  the 
road  to  Blidah(leaving  the  stupefied  negress  in  the 
house  with  the  narghile,  the  turban,  the  slippers,  in 
short,  all  the  cast-off  Mussulman  apparel  of  Sidi 
Tart'ri,  lying  piteously  about  on  the  trefoiled  pave- 
ment of  the  gallery. 


The  Exiled  Diligence.  95 


THIRD   EPISODE. 

AMONG  THE   LIONS. 

I. 

The  exiled  diligence. 

It  was  an  old  diligence  of  other  days,  lined,  in 
ancient  fashion,  with  coarse  blue  cloth  now  faded, 
and  those  enormous  bunches  of  rough  wool  which 
end,  after  some  hours'  travel,  in  blistering  your 
back.  .  .  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  one  corner  of 
the  rotunda ;  there  he  installed  himself  as  best  he 
could,  and  while  awaiting  the  musky  emanations 
from  the  great  felines  of  Africa,  he  was  forced  to 
content  himself  with  that  good  old  smell  of  a  dili- 
gence, curiously  compounded  of  a  thousand  smells, 
—  men,  horses,  women,  leather,  victuals,  and  damp 
straw. 

A  little  of  all  was  in  this  rotunda:  A  Trappist 
monk,  Jew  merchants,  two  cocottes  rejoining  their 
regiment  (Third  Hussars  J),  a  photographer  from 
Orleansville.  .  .  But,  varied  and  charming  as  the 
company  was,  Tartarin  was  not  inclined  to  talk;  he 
sat  quite  pensive,  his  arm  through  the  strap,  his 
carbines  between  his  legs.  .  ,  This  abrupt  depart- 
ur^  those  black  eyes  of  Baia;^the  terrible  hunt  he 


gS  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

was  about  to  undertake,  all  these  things  harassed 
his  brain ;  not  to  mention  the  fact  that  this  Euro- 
pean diligence  with  its  good  old  patriarchal  air 
recalled  to  him,  vaguely,  the  Tarascon  of  his 
youth,  his  rambles  in  the  suburbs,  the  nice  little 
dinners  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone;  in  short,  a 
crowd  of  memories.  .  . 

Little  by  little  darkness  fell.  The  conductor 
lighted  his  lanterns.  .  .  The  diligence  bumped 
and  squeaked  on  its  rusty  springs;  the  horses 
trotted,  the  bells  tinkled.  .  .  Now  and  then,  from 
beneath  the  tarpaulin  of  the  imperial,  came  a  ter- 
rible clatter  of  iron  —  this  was  the  war-material. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  three  parts  dozing,  looked 
for  awhile  at  the  other  travellers  comically  shaken 
by  jolts,  and  dancing  before  him  like  the  shadows 
of  a  rushlight;  then  his  eyes  grew  dim,  his  thought 
hazy,  and  he  heard  but  vaguely  the  grinding  sound 
of  the  axles  and  the  lumbering  complaints  of  the 
vehicle. 

Suddenly,  a  voice,  the  voice  of  an  old  witch, 
hoarse,  cracked,  broken,  called  the  hero  by  name : 
"  Monsieur  Tartarin  !  Monsieur  Tartarin  !  " 

"Who  calls?" 

"  'T  is  I,  Monsieur  Tartarin ;  don't  you  know 
me?  .  .  I  'm  the  old  diHgence  that  used  to  ply  — 
twenty  years  ago  —  between  Nimes  and  Taras- 
con. .  .  How  many  times  I  've  carried  you,  you 
and  your  friends,  when  you  went  to  hunt  the  caps 
about  Joncquieres  or  Bellegarde !  .  .  I  did  n't 
recognize  you  at  first,  on  account  of  that  Teur  cap 
of  yours  and  the  flesh  you  have  put  on ;  but  as 


The  Exiled  Diligence,  97 

soon  as  you  began  to  snore,  faith !  I  knew  you 
then." 

"  Very  good  !  very  good  !  "  exclaimed  Tartarin, 
hastily  and  rather  vexed. 

Then,  softening  his  tone :  — 

"But, -my  poor  old  soul,  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"  Ah  !  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  did  n't 
come  of  my  own  accord,  I  can  assure  you.  .  .  As 
soon  as  that  railway  to  Beaucaire  was  finished  they 
said  I  was  good  for  nothing  and  packed  me  off  to 
Africa.  .  .  And  I  'm  not  the  only  one !  nearly  all 
the  diligences  of  France  have  been  exiled  like  me. 
They  thought  us  too  reactionary ;  so  here  we  are, 
leading  the  life  of  galley-slaves.  .  .  That 's  what 
you  call  in  France  Algerine  railroads." 

Here  the  old  diligence  heaved  a  heavy  sigh ; 
then  she  resumed  :  — 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Tartarin,  how  I  regret  it,  my 
beautiful  Tarascon !  Those  were  the  good  days 
for  me,  the  days  of  my  youth  !  T  was  fine  to  see 
me  start  of  a  morning,  washed  and  shining,  with 
my  wheels  all  varnished  fresh,  my  lanterns  like 
two  suns,  and  that  tarpaulin  overhead  always 
rubbed  up  with  oil !  Oh,  yes  !  't  was  fine  when  the 
postilion  cracked  his  whip  to  the  tune  of:  Laga- 
digadeouy  la  Tarasqiie!  la  Tarasque!  and  the 
conductor,  his  percussion-gun  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  his  embroidered  cap  on  one  ear,  tossed 
that  puppy  of  ours,  always  furious,  on  the  top  of 
the  tarpaulin  and  sprang  up  himself,  crying  out: 
*  Off  with  you  !  off  you  go  !  *    And  then,  don't  you 

7 


98  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

remember  how  my  four  horses  started  to  the  sound 
of  the  bells,  the  barks,  the  bugles ;  the  windows 
opened,  and  all  Tarascon  looked  out  with  pride  as 
the  diligence  rolled  off  along  the  royal  highroad. 

**  And  what  a  fine  road,  Monsieur  Tartarin ! 
broad,  well-kept,  with  its  finger-posts  and  its 
heaps  of  stones  for  mending,  all  regularly 
placed;  and  right  and  left  the  pretty  plains  of 
olive-trees  and  vineyards.  .  .  And  those  way- 
side inns  every  ten  steps,  and  relays  every  five 
minutes !  .  .  And  my  travellers  too,  such  nice 
people !  mayors  and  rectors  going  to  Nimes  to 
see  their  prefect  or  their  bishop ;  honest  mercers 
returning  -  from  the  Mazet;  school-boys  off  for 
the  holidays ;  peasants  in  their  new  embroidered 
blouses,  shaved  clean  that  very  morning;  and  up 
there,  on  the  imperial,  you  gentlemen,  hunting 
caps,  —  always  good-humoured,  and  singing,  each 
of  you  his  owUy  to  the  stars  as  you  came  back !  .  ." 

"Now  it  is  another  story.  .  .  God  knows  the 
sort  of  people  I  have  to  cart !  —  a  lot  of  miscreants 
from  I  don't  know  where,  who  fill  me  with  ver- 
min ;  negroes,  bedouins,  straggling  soldiers,  ad- 
venturers from  all  countries,  settlers  in  rags  who 
taint  me  with  their  pipes,  and  all  of  them  talking  a 
language  that  God  the  Father  himself  couldn't^ 
understand.  .  .  And  then,  you  see  how  I  am 
treated!  Never  brushed,  never  washed.  People 
complain  of  the  cart-grease  on  my  axles.  .  .  In- 
stead of  the  four  good  quiet  horses  that  I  used  to 
have,  now  it  is  those  little  Arab  beasts  with  the 
devil  in  'em ;  fighting,  biting,  skipping  along  like 


Tlie  Exiled  Diligence.  99 

goats  and  breaking  my  shafts  with  their  heels.  .  . 
Afe  !  .  .  aie !  .  .  there !  .  .  now  it  is  beginning.  .  . 
And  the  roads  !  Just  here  they  are  tolerable,  be- 
cause it  is  near  the  government ;  but  down  there  ! 
why,  there  's  no  road  at  all.  You  go  as  you  can ; 
over  mountains  and  plains,  among  the  dwarf  palms 
and  the  mastic-trees.  There  's  not  a  single  fixed  re- 
lay. You  stop  where  the  conductor  fancies ;  some- 
times at  one  farm-house,  sometimes  at  another. 

"  There  are  times  when  that  rascal  makes  me 
go  two  leagues  out  of  my  way  that  he  may  drink 
absinthe  or  champoreau  with  a  friend.  .  .  After 
which,  whip  up,  postilion !  catch  up  lost  time ! 
The  sun  bakes,  the  dust  burns !  Whip  up  !  Bang 
against  something  and  nearly  over !  Whip  up ! 
whip  up  !  Over  rivers  in  flood,  wet  through,  take 
cold,  drown  !  .  .  Whip  !  whip  !  whip  !  .  .  Then  at 
night,  all  dripping,  (is  that  good  for  one  of  my 
age?  and  with  rheumatism  too?)  I  am  forced  to 
sleep  out  in  the  open  air,  in  the  courtyard  of  a 
caravansary,  exposed  to  all  winds.  In  the  darkness 
the  jackals  and  the  hyenas  come  and  smell  me,  and 
the  rabble  that  fear  the  dew  get  into  my  compart- 
ments to  keep  themselves  warm.  .  .  That 's  the  life 
I  lead,  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  and  I  shall  have 
to  lead  it  till  the  day  when,  baked  by  the  sun,  rotted 
by  the  damp  nights,  I  shall  break  down  —  not  being 
able  to  do  otherwise  —  in  some  angle  of  this  vile 
road,  and  the  Arabs  will  boil  their  kouss-kouss  with 
the  fragments  of  my  old  carcass.  .  ." 

"  Blidah  !  Blidah  !  "  called  the  conductor,  open- 
ing the  door. 


lOO  -    Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 


II. 

Brief  acquaintance  with  a  little  gentleman. 

Vaguely,  through  windows  dulled  by  steam, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  saw  the  pretty  square  of  a 
sub-prefecture,  laid  out  regularly,  surrounded  by 
arcades  and  planted  with  orange-trees,  in  the 
centre  of  which  were  small  leaden  soldiers  doing 
the  exercise  in  the  rosy  mists  of  dawn.  The 
cafes  were  taking  down  their  shutters.  In  a  cor- 
ner was  the  market,  full  of  vegetables.  .  .  'T  was 
charming  but  —  the  lion  was  not  yet  smelt. 

**  The  South  !  .  .  Farther  South  !  "  murmured 
the  worthy  Tartarin  as  he  settled  himself  back  in 
his  corner. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened.  A  waft  of 
fresh  air  came  in,  bringing  on  its  wings  a  fra- 
grance of  orange-blossoms  and  a  very  little  gentle- 
man in  a  nut-brown  overcoat,  elderly,  withered, 
wrinkled,  starched,  a  face  the  size  of  my  fist,  a 
black  silk  cravat  five  inches  high,  a  leather  bag,  an 
umbrella,  —  a  perfect  village  notary. 

On  catching  sight  of  the  hero's  war-material 
the  little  gentleman,  who  sat  in  front  of  him,  seemed 
excessively  surprised,  and  looked  at  Tartarin  with 
a  persistency  that  grew  rather  embarrassing. 


Acquaintance  with  a  Gentleman.     loi 

The  horses  were  taken  out,  others  put  in,  and 
the  diHgence  started.  The  httle  gentlemi^n  stiU 
looked  at  Tartarin.  .  .  Finally  the  hero  was 
nettled.  -  '   '  ■ 

**Does  that  surprise  you?"  he  asked,  looking 
the  little  gentleman  full  in  the  face. 

"  No.  It  inconveniences  me,"  replied  the  other, 
tranquilly.  The  truth  is,  that  what  with  his  shelter- 
tent,  his  revolver,  his  two  guns,  and  his  hunting- 
knife  in  its  case  —  not  to  speak  of  his  natural 
corpulence  —  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  took  a  great 
deal  of  room,  .  . 

The  answer  of  the  little  gentleman  made  him 
angry. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  suppose  that  I  am  going  to 
hunt  Hons  with  your  umbrella?"  said  the  great 
man,  proudly. 

The  little  gentleman  looked  at  his  umbrella, 
smiled  softly,  and  said,  with  the  same  phlegm : 

"  Then,  monsieur,  you  are.  .  ?  " 

**  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  lion-slayer !  " 

In  pronouncing  those  words  the  intrepid  hero 
shook  the  tassel  of  his  fez  as  if  it  were  a  mane. 

A  moment  of  stupor  occurred  in  the  diligence. 

The  monk  crossed  himself,  the  cocottes  emitted 
little  cries  of  alarm,  and  the  Orl^ansville  photogra- 
pher drew  nearer  to  the  lion-slayer  already  seeking 
the  signal  honour  of  taking  his  photograph. 

The  little  gentleman,  however,  was  not  discon- 
certed. 

"  Have  you  killed  many  lions,  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin?" he  asked  very  quietly. 


I02  Tar  tar  in  of  Tar  as  con. 

The  hero  received  that  query  in  his  finest 
manner. 

''Have  I  killed  many,  monsieur?..  I  could 
wish  you  had  as  many  hairs  upon  your  head.'* 

All  the  diligence  began  to  laugh  and  to  look  at 
the  three  yellow  hairs  of  Cadet-Roussel,  which  were 
all  that  bristled  on  the  skull  of  the  little  gentleman. 

The  Orleansville  photographer  now  spoke  up. 

"  Terrible  profession  yours,  Monsieur  Tarta- 
rin !  .  .  You  must  spend  dreadful  moments 
sometimes.  .  .  For  instance  that  poor  Monsieur 
Bombonnel.  .  !' 

"  Ah  !  yes,  killer  of  panthers.  .  . "  said  Tar- 
tarin,  rather  disdainfully. 

"Did  you  know  him?"  asked  the  little  gentle- 
man. 

"  Hey !  pardi  I .  .  If  I  know  him  ! . .  We  have 
hunted  a  score  of  times  together." 

The  little  gentleman  smiled.  "  Then  you  do 
hunt  the  panther  sometimes.  Monsieur  Tartarin?" 

"  Occasionally  —  to  pass  the  time,"  said  the 
ruffled  Tartarin. 

Then  he  added,  raising  his  head  with  an  heroic 
gesture  that  inflamed  the  hearts  of  the  two 
cocottes :  — • 

"  They  are  nothing  to  lions  !  " 

"  In  fact,"  ventured  the  photographer,  "  a  panther 
is  only  a  big  cat.  .  ." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Tartarin,  not  sorry  to  reduce 
the  fame  of  Bombonnel,  especially  in  presence  of 
ladies. 

Here    the    diligence    stopped;    the    conductor 


Acquainta^ice  with  a  Gentleman.     103 

opened  the  door,  and  addressing  the  little  old 
gentleman,  said  with  a  very  respectful  air :  — 

"  Here  we  are,  monsieur." 

The  little  gentleman  rose,  got  out  of  the  diligence, 
but  before  closing  the  door,  he  turned  and  said : 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  give  you  a  piece  of 
advice,  Monsieur  Tartarin?" 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?" 

"  Listen.  You  look  to  me  a  worthy  man,  and  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  the  real  truth.  .  .  Return  at 
once  to  Tarascon,  Monsieur  Tartarin.  .  .  You  will 
lose  your  time  here.  .  .  There  are  still  a  few  pan- 
thers left  in  the  provinces,  but  fie !  that  is  much 
too  small  game  {or yoii,  .  .  As  for  Hons,  that's  all 
over.  There  is  not  a  lion  left  in  Algeria.  .  .  My 
friend  Chassaing  killed  the  last." 

On  which  the  little  gentleman  bowed,  shut  the 
door,  and  went  off  laughing  with  his  bag  and  his 
umbrella. 

"  Conductor,"  demanded  Tartarin,  with  his  ter- 
rible grimace,  "Who  is  that  man?" 

"What!  don't  you  know  him?  Why,  that  is 
Monsieur  Bombonnel." 


I04  Tartarm  of  Tarascon. 


III. 

A  convent  of  lions. 

At  Milianah  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  abandoned 
the  diligence,  leaving  it  to  continue  its  way  to  the 
South. 

Two  days  of  rough  jolting,  two  nights  spent  with 
eyes  wide  open,  gazing  through  the  window  in 
hopes  of  perceiving  in  the  fields  or  on  the  borders 
of  the  highroad  the  formidable  shadow  of  the  king 
of  beasts,  —  such  insomnia  needed  rehef.  Besides, 
since  I  must  tell  all,  after  his  misadventure  with 
Bombonnel,  Tartarin,  in  spite  of  his  weapons,  his 
fez,  and  his  terrible  grimace,  felt  ill  at  ease  before 
the  Orleansville  photographer  and  the  two  young 
ladies  of  the  Third  Hussars. 

He  now  proceeded  through  the  wide  streets  of 
Milianah,  full  of  beautiful  trees  and  fountains,  in 
search  of  an  inn  to  suit  him;  but  all  the  while 
thinking,  poor  man!  of  Bombonnel's  last  words.  .  . 
Suppose  they  were  true?  Suppose  there  were 
really  no  more  lions  in  Algeria?  .  .  What,  then, 
was  the  good  of  these  travels,  these  toils?  .  . 

Suddenly,  at  the  turn  of  a  street,  our  hero  found 
himself  face  to  face  .  .  .  with  what?  Guess.  .  . 
With  a  superb  lion,  waiting  before  the  door  of  a 


A  Co7ivent  of  Lions,  105 

Ccifj,  seated  royally  on  his  hind-quarters,  his  tawny 
raane  in  the  sunlight. 

*'  Why  did  they  tell  me  there  were  none?  "  cried 
the  Tarasconesc,  jumping  backward.  Hearing 
this  exclamation,  the  lion  lowered  his  head,  and 
taking  in  his  jaws  a  wooden  bowl  which  stood 
before  him  on  the  sidewalk  he  held  it  humbly 
towards  Tartarin  standing  motionless  and  stupe- 
fied. .  .  Just  then  a  passing  Arab  flung  a  sou  into 
the  bowl;  the  lion  waved  his  tail.  .  .  Then  Tar- 
tarin comprehended  all.  He  saw,  what  emotion 
had  hitherto  prevented  him  from  seeing,  namely, 
the  crowd  of  people  gathered  around  that  poor, 
tame,  blinded  lion,  and  two  big  negroes  armed 
with  cudgels,  who  were  tramping  the  animal  across 
the  town  as  Savoyards  do  their  marmots. 

The  blood  of  the  hero  gave  one  bound. 
"  Wretches  !  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,'"  thus 
to  degrade  these  noble  beasts  !  "  And,  springing 
upon  the  lion,  he  tore  that  filthy  bowl  from  his 
royal  jaws.  .  .  The  two  negroes,  thinking  him  a 
robber,  rushed  upon  the  intruder  with  uplifted 
clubs.  .  .  The  tussle  was  terrible.  .  .  The  negroes 
banged,  the  women  bawled,  the  children  laughed. 
An  old  Jewish  cobbler  called  out,  from  the  depths 
of  his  shop:  "To  the  joustice  of  peace!  the  jous- 
tice  of  peace !  "  Even  the  lion,  in  his  benighted 
state,  essayed  a  roar,  and  the  unfortunate  Tartarin, 
after  a  desperate  struggle,  was  rolled  in  the  dust 
'mid  the  sous  and  the  sweepings. 

At  this  juncture  a  man  forced  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  scattered  the  negroes  with  a  word,  the 


io6  Tar  tar  in  of  Tarasco7i, 

women  and  children  with  a  sign,  picked  up  Tar- 
tarin,  brushed  him,  shook  him,  and  seated  him, 
completely  out  of  breath,  upon  a  milestone. 

**  O  preiJtce,  is  it  you  ?  "  cried  the  worthy  Tartarin, 
rubbing  his  sides. 

''Yes,  my  vaHant  friend,  'tis  I.  .  .  No  sooner 
^jwas^your  letter  received  ^t,han  I  confided  BaYa  to 
her  brother, ^hired  a  post-chaise,  did  fifty  leagues 
at  top  speed,  and  here  I  am,  just  in  time  to  save 
you  from  the  brutality  of  these  boors.  .  .  What 
have  you  done,  just  heaven !  to  get  yourself  into 
such  danger?  " 

"I  could  not  help  it,  prHnce.  .  .  To  see  that 
unhappy  lion  with  a  bowl  between  his  teeth !  hu- 
miliated, vanquished,  derided  !  an  object  of  ridicule 
to  these  beggarly  mussulmans  !  " 

''  But  you  are  mistaken,  my  noble  friend.  This 
lion  is,  on  the  contrary,  an  object  of  respect  and 
adoration  among  them.  It  is  a  sacred  animal,  and 
forms  part  of  a  convent  of  lions,  founded  about 
three  hundred  years  ago  by  Mahommed-ben-Aouda, 
a  sort  of  La  Trappe,  stupendous  and  savage,  full  of 
roars  and  wild-beast  odours,  where  a  strange  class 
of  monks  raise  and  tame  lions  by  the  hundred,  and 
send  them  from  there  to  all  parts  of  Northern 
Africa  accompanied  by  mendicant  friars.  .  .  The 
gifts  received  through  these  friars  support  the  con- 
vent and  its  mosque;  and  if  the  two  negroes 
showed  temper  just  now,  it  was  only  because  if  a 
single  sou  of  those  charitable  gifts  is  lost  or  stolen 
by  their  fault  the  lion  will  instantly  devour  them." 

While  listening  to  this  improbable,  though  truth- 


A  Convent  of  Lions,  107 

ful,  narrative,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  hugged  himself 
in  joy,  and  snuffed  the  air  noisily. 

"  What  gratifies  me  in  all  this,"  he  said,  by  way 
of  conclusion,  "is  that,  in  spite  of  Monsieur  Bom- 
bonnel,  there  are  still  lions  in  Algeria !  .  ." 

"  Lions  in  Algeria ! "  cried  the  prince  with  en- 
thusiasm. .  .  "  To-morrow  we  will  go  and  beat  the 
plain  of  the  Cheliff,  and  you  shall  see !  you  shall 
see !  .  ." 

"What,  prfince !  .  .  you,  yourself?  Do  you  in- 
tend to  hunt?" 

"  Parbleu  !  do  you  suppose  I  would  leave  you  to 
go  alone  into  the  heart  of  Africa  among  those 
savage  tribes  whose  language  and  customs  are  un- 
known to  you?  .  .  No  !  no  !  illustrious  Tartarin,  I 
quit  you  no  more.  .  .  Wherever  you  are,  I  will 
be." 

"Oh!  prfince, prfince.  .  ." 

And  Tartarin,  radiant,  pressed  the  valiant  Greg- 
ory to  his  heart,  proudly  reflecting  that,  like  Jules 
Gerard,  Bombonnel,  and  all  the  other  famous  lion- 
slayers,  he,  too,  would  have  a  foreign  prince  to 
accompany  his  adventures. 


io8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 


IV. 

The  caravan  on  the  march. 

The  next  day,  at  the  earliest  hour,  the  intrepid 
Tartarin  and  the  no  less  intrepid  Prince  Gregory, 
followed  by  half  a  dozen  negro  porters,  issued 
from  Milianah  and  descended  toward  the  plain  of 
the  Ch^liff  by  a  delightful  path  shady  with  jasmine, 
palm-trees,  locust-trees  and  wild  olives,  between 
two  hedges  of  native  gardens  where  thousands  of 
joyous  springs  leaped  bubbling  and  singing  from 
rock  to  rock.  .  .     A  scene  of  Libanus. 

Prince  Gregory,  loaded  with  weapons  like  the 
great  Tartarin,  had  donned  a  magnificent  and 
singular  kepi  adorned  with  gold  lace  and  a  design 
of  oak  leaves  embroidered  in  silver  fiHgree,  which 
gave  his  Highness  a  false  air  of  a  Mexican  general, 
or  station-master  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube. 

That  devil  of  a  kepi  puzzled  Tartarin  exceed- 
ingly, and  he  timidly  asked  an  explanation. 

"  Indispensable  head-gear  for  travelling  in 
Africa,"  replied  the  prince,  with  gravity;  and 
poHshing  the  visor  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  he 
proceeded  to  instruct  his  guileless  companion 
about  the  important  role  played  by  the  kepi  in 
our  national  relations  with  the  Arabs,  the  terror 
that  that  military  symbol  alone  has  the  privilege  to 
inspire;  so  much  so  that  the  civil  administration 


The  Caravan  on  the  March.         109 

has  been  obliged  to  cover  the  heads  of  its  em- 
ployes, from  the  labourer  on  the  roads  to  the 
receiver  of  taxes,  vi^ith  k^pis.  In  short,  to  govern 
Algeria  —  't  is  the  prince  who  speaks  —  it  is  not  a 
strong  head,  nor  even  a  head  at  all,  that  is  needed ; 
a  k6pi  suffices ;  a  fine  gold-laced  kepi,  shining  at 
the  top  of  a  numskull,  Hke  Gessler's  helmet. 

Thus  talking  and  philosophizing,  the  caravan 
went  its  way.  The  porters  skipped,  barefooted, 
from  rock  to  rock  like  monkeys.  The  weapons 
rattled  in  their  cases.  The  guns  glittered.  The 
natives  as  they  passed  bowed  down,  to  earth  before 
that  magic  kepi.  .  .  Above,  on  the  ramparts  of 
Milianah,  the  head  of  the  Arabian  department 
walking  in  the  cool  of  the  morning  with  his  lady, 
heard  these  unusual  noises,  saw  the  shining  of  the 
muzzles  through  the  branches,  and,  supposing  it  a 
sudden  attack,  ordered  the  drawbridge  opened, 
called  the  garrison  to  arms,  and  put  the  town 
incontinently  into  a  state  of  siege. 

A  fine  debut,  truly,  for  the  caravan ! 

Unfortunately,  before  the  close  of  the  day  mat- 
ters went  wrong.  Of  the  negroes  who  carried  the 
baggage,  one  was  taken  with  atrocious  coHcky 
pains,  after  eating  the  diachylon  of  the  medicine 
chest.  Another  fell  down  dead  drunk  by  the 
roadside,  having  drunk  up  the  camphorated 
brandy.  A  third,  he  who  bore  the  album  of 
travel,  seduced  by  the  gilded  clasps  and  persuaded 
that  he  was  carrying  off  the  treasures  of  Mecca, 
ran  away  at  top  speed  into  the  Zaccar.  .  .  It  was 
necessary  to  consider  matters.     The  caravan  halted 


no  Tartar  ill  of  Tarascon, 

and  held  counsel  under  the  flickering  shade  of  an 
old  fig-tree. 

"  My  advice  is,"  said  the  prince,  endeavouring, 
but  without  success,  to  melt  a  tablet  of  pemmican 
in  a  perfected  species  of  saucepan  with  a  triple 
bottom,  **  my  advice  is  to  renounce  those  negro 
porters  at  once.  There 's  an  Arab  market  close 
by.  Our  best  plan  is  to  go  there  immediately  and 
buy  a  lot  of  donkeys.  .  ." 

"  No !  .  .  no !  .  .  not  donkeys,"  interrupted  the 
great  Tartarin,  hastily,  flushing  red  with  the  recol- 
lection of  Noiraud. 

Then  he  added  —  the  hypocrite :  — 

"  How  do  you  expect  such  little  animals  to 
carry  all  our  paraphernaHa?" 

The  prince  smiled. 

*'  You  are  mistaken  as  to  that,  my  illustrious 
friend,"  he  said.  **  Lean  and  puny  as  he  looks  to 
you,  the  Algerine  bourriquot  has  solid  loins.  .  .  He 
must  have  them  to  carry  all  he  does  carry  .  .  .  ask 
the  Arabs.  Here  's  how  they  explain  our  colonial 
organization :  At  the  top,  they  say,  is  the  mouciy 
governor,  with  a  great  stick,  who  raps  his  staff; 
the  staff  to  avenge  themselves,  rap  the  soldier,  the 
soldier  raps  the  settler,  the  settler  raps  the  Arab, 
the  Arab  raps  the  negro,  the  negro  raps  the  Jew, 
the  Jew  raps  the  bourriquot ;  and  the  poor  little 
donkey,  having  no  one  to  rap,  bears  all.  So  you 
see,  he  can  very  well  bear  your  cases." 

"  All  the  same,"  persisted  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 
"  I  think  that  for  the  look  of  our  caravan  donkeys 
are  not  the   thing.  .  .     I  prefer  something  more 


The  Caravan  07i  the  March,        1 1 1 

oriental.  .  .  For  instance,  if  we  could  buy  a 
camel.  .  ." 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  said  his  Highness,  and  they 
took  their  way  to  the  Arab  market. 

The  market  was  only  a  short  distance  off  on  the 
banks  of  the  Chdliff.  .  .  In  it  were  some  five  or 
six  thousand  Arabs  in  rags,  swarming  in  the  sun, 
and  noisily  bargaining  amid  jars  of  black  olives, 
pots  of  honey,  sacks  of  spices,  heaps  of  cigars ; 
and  all  around  them  fires,  where  sheep,  streaming 
with  butter,  were  roasting  whole,  and  shambles  in 
the  open  air,  where  naked  negroes,  their  feet  in 
blood,  their  arms  reddened  with  gore,  were  cutting 
up  with  little  knives  the  animals  that  were  hanging 
from  a  pole. 

In  a  corner,  under  a  tent  patched  with  a  hundred 
colours,  sits  a  Moorish  clerk  with  a  big  book  and 
spectacles.  Near  by,  a  group  of  Arabs  uttering 
shouts  of  rage  ;  they  are  playing  a  game  of  roulette 
stuck  on  a  sack  of  wheat;  a  number  of  Kabyles 
watching  the  game  and  fanning  themselves.  .  .'  Far- 
ther on,  much  stamping,  joy,  and  shouts  of  laughter 
from  a  crowd  who  are  watching  a  Jewish  merchant 
and  his  mule  drowning  in  the  river.  .  .  And  scor- 
pions, dogs,  buzzards,  flies !  .  .  oh,  flies !  .  . 

But  as  fate  would  have  it,  camels  lacked.  How- 
ever, they  ended  by  finding  one  which  some 
M'zabites  were  seeking  to  get  rid  of.  Twas  a 
camel  of  the  desert,  the  classic  camel,  bald,  mel- 
ancholy, with  a  long  bedouin  head,  and  his  hump, 
now  grown  limp  from  much  fasting,  hanging  sadly 
to  one  side. 


112  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

Tartarin  thought  him  so  fine  that  he  wished  to 
mount  the  whole  caravan  on  top  of  him.  .  .  Al- 
ways the  Oriental  craze  !  .  . 

The  beast  knelt  down.  The  baggage  was 
strapped  on. 

The  prince  installed  himself  on  the  animal's  neck. 
Tartarin,  desiring  more  majesty,  caused  himself  to 
be  hoisted  to  the  top  of  the  hump,  between  two 
cases ;  and  there,  proud  and  securely  wedged  in,  he 
saluted  with  a  noble  gesture  the  assembled  market 
and  gave  the  signal  of  departure.  .  .  Thunder ! 
if  Tarascon  could  only  have  seen  him  then !  .  . 

The  camel  rose,  stretched  out  his  knotty  legs, 
and  began  his  flight.  .  . 

Oh,  horrors  !  After  a  few  strides,  behold  Tartarin 
turning  pale,  and  the  heroic  fez  resuming,  one  by 
one,  its  former  positions  on  board  the  "  Zouave." 
That  devil  of  a  camel  rolled  like  a  frigate. 

'^  Pr^'ince  !  prfince  !''  murmured  Tartarin,  livid, 
and  clutching  at  the  tuft  on  the  camel's  hump; 
"  prdifnce,  let  us  get  down.  .  .  I  feel  .  .  ^  I  feel  .  .  . 
that  I  am  about  to  .  .  .  make  France  a  .  .  . 
spectacle !  .  ." 

Va  te  promener  !  the  camel  was  off  and  nothing 
could  stop  him.  Four  thousand  Arabs  ran  behind 
on  naked  feet,  gesticulating,  laughing  like  madmen, 
and  making  their  six  hundred  thousand  ivory  teeth 
glitter  in  the  sunshine.  .  . 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  was  forced  to  resign 
himself.  He  sank  down  sadly  on  the  hump.  The 
fez  took  any  and  all  of  the  positions  it  chose  and  — 
France  was  made  a  spectacle. 


The  Night-Watch.  113 


V. 

The  night-watch  in  a  copse  of  oleanders. 

However  picturesque  may  have  been  their  new 
mount,  the  lion-slayers,  in  the  end,  were  forced  to 
renounce  it,  on  account  of  the  fez.  They  there- 
fore continued  their  way,  as  before,  on  foot,  and 
the  caravan  went  calmly  on,  by  short  stages,  to 
the  South ;  the  Tarasconese  at  its  head,  the  Mon- 
tenegrin at  its  tail,  the  camel  between  with  the 
weapons,  etc. 

The  expedition  lasted  nearly  a  month. 

During  that  month,  the  indomitable  Tartarin, 
seeking  Hons  unfindable,  wandered  from  village  to 
village  on  the  vast  plain  of  the  Cheliff,  across  that 
formidable  and  preposterous  French  Algeria,  where 
the  perfumes  of  the  Far  East  are  complicated  with 
a  strong  odour  of  absinthe  and  barracks/ Abraham 
and  Zouzou  mingled ;  something  fairy  like  and 
artlessly  burlesque,  like  a  page  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment recited  by  Sergeant  Ram^e  or  Corporal 
Pitou.  .  .  Curious  spectacle  to  eyes  that  can 
see.  .  .  A  savage  and  rotten  population  which  we 
are  civilizing  by  giving  them  our  vices  .  .  .  the 
ferocious  and  uncontrolled  authority  of  fantastic 
pachas  who  blow  their  noses  on  their  ribbons  of 
the  Legion  of  honour,  and  for  a  yes  or  a  no  ad- 

8 


114  Tartari7t  of  Tarasco7t. 

minister  bastinado  to  their  people  .  .  .  justice  with- 
out conscience  applied  by  cadis  in  big  spectacles, 
regular  Tartuffes  of  the  Koran  and  the  law,  who 
dream  of  a  15th  of  August  and  promotion  beneath 
the  palm-trees,  and  sell  their  verdicts,  as  Esau  his 
birthright,  for  a  dish  of  lentils,  or  of  kouss-kouss 
and  sugar  .  . .  licentious  and  drunken  sheiks,  former 
orderlies  of  some  General  Tussuf  or  other,  who 
guzzle  champagne  with  the  Mahonese  washer- 
women, and  junket  on  roast  mutton,  while  before 
their  very  tents  their  tribes  are  starving,  and  quar- 
relling with  the  hounds  for  the  scraps  that  fall 
from  their  master's  orgy. 

Then,  all  around,  plains  laid  waste,  grass  burned 
up,  thorn-bushes  everywhere,  thickets  of  cactus 
and  prickly-pear,  the  granary  of  France  !  .  .  Gran- 
ary void  of  grain,  forsooth !  rich  only  in  jackals 
and  bed-bugs.  .  .  Abandoned  settlements,  terri- 
fied tribes,  goings  they  know  not  where,  flying  from 
hunger,  and  sowing  the  highways  with  dead  bod- 
ies. At  long  intervals,  a  French  village,  with  its 
houses  in  ruins,  fields  uncultivated,  grasshoppers 
rampant,  eating  up  even  the  curtains  at  the  win- 
dows, and  all  the  colonists  in  the  cafes  drink- 
ing absinthe  and  discussing  the  constitution  and 
schemes  of  reform. 

This  is  what  Tartarin  might  have  seen  had  he 
given  himself  the  trouble  to  observe;  but,  con- 
sumed by  his  leonine  passion,  the  man  of  Tarascon 
went  straight  before  him,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  to  the  left,  his  eye  obstinately  fixed 
on  those  imaginary  monsters  who  never  appeared. 


The  Night-Watch,  115 

As  the  shelter-tent  obstinately  refused  to  open 
and  the  tablets  of  pemmlcan  to  melt,  the  caravan 
was  obliged  to  put  up,  night  and  morning,  with 
the  natives.  Everywhere,  thanks  to  the  kepi  of 
Prince  Gregory,  our  hunters  were  received  with 
open  arms.  They  lodged  with  agas  in  strange 
palaces,  huge  windowless  farm-houses,  where  they 
saw,  pell-mell,  narghiles  and  mahogany  bureaus, 
Smyrna  rugs  and  moderator-lamps,  chests  of  cedar- 
wood  filled  with  Turkish  sequins,  and  clocks  in  the 
style  Louis-Philippe.  .  .  Wherever  they  went  splen- 
did fetes,  diff as,  fantasias  were  given  to  Tartarin. . . 
In  his  honour  whole  goums  [native  contingent  to 
the  French  army]  made  powder  speak  and  showed 
off  their  burnous  in  the  sun.  Then,  when  the 
powder  had  spoken,  the  worthy  aga  came  round 
and  presented  his  bill.  .  .  That  is  what  is  called 
Arab  hospitality. 

But  still  no  lions.  No  more  lions  than  there  are 
on  the  Pont  Neuf  .  . 

And  yet  the  hero  was  not  discouraged.  Plung- 
ing bravely  into  the  South  he  spent  whole  days  in 
beating  up  the  coppices,  poking  among  the  dwarf 
palm-trees  with  the  end  of  his  carbine,  and  calling 
**Scat!  scat!"  at  every  bush.  Moreover,  every 
evening  before  he  went  to  bed  he  lay  in  wait  for 
two  or  three  hours.  Vain  trouble  !  the  lion  never 
showed  himself 

But  one  evening,  towards  six  o'clock,  as  the 
caravan  was  threading  its  way  through  a  grove  of 
violet  mastic-trees,  where  plump  quail,  dulled  by  the 
heat,  were  fluttering  here  and  there  in  the  grass, 


Ii6  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  thought  he  heard  —  but  so 
far-off,  so  vague,  so  broken  by  the  breeze  —  that 
wondrous  roar  he  had  often  listened  to  in  Taras- 
con behind  the  menagerie  Mitaine. 

At  first  our  hero  thought  he  dreamed  .  .  .  But 
an  instant  later,  still  far  off  though  more  distinct, 
the  roar  was  heard  again;  and  this  time,  while 
from  all  corners  of  the  horizon  howled  the  dogs  of 
the  natives,  the  hump  of  the  camel,  so  shaken  by- 
terror  that  the  weapons  and  the  aliments  clattered, 
quivered  visibly. 

No  longer  any  doubt.  'T  was  a  lion  .  .  .  Quick, 
quick !  on  the  watch  !     Not  a  minute  to  lose  ! 

Close  at  hand  was  an  old  marabout  (tomb  of  a 
saint),  with  a  white  cupola  and  the  yellow  slippers 
of  the  deceased  deposited  in  a  niche  above  the 
door,  together  with  a  medley  of  fantastic  ex-votoSy 
flaps  of  burnous,  gold  thread,  red  hair,  etc.,  hang- 
ing to  the  walls.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  put  his 
prince  and  his  camel  in  that  retreat,  and  went  him- 
self in  quest  of  an  ambush.  Prince  Gregory 
wished  to  follow  him,  but  the  hero  declined ;  he 
was  bent  on  confronting  the  lion  alone.  Never- 
theless, he  requested  his  Highness  not  to  go  away, 
and,  as  a  measure  of  precaution,  he  confided  to 
him  his  wallet,  a  fat  wallet,  filled  with  precious 
papers  and  bank  bills,  which  he  feared  might  be 
scarified  by  the  claws  of  the  lion.  That  done, 
the  hero  proceeded  to  seek  for  his  post. 

A  hundred  steps  in  front  of  the  marabout  a  little 
copse  of  oleanders  fluttered  in  the  twilight  haze, 
on  the  bank  of  a  river  that  was  almost  dry.     There 


The  Night-Watch,  117 

our  hero  lay  in  wait,  one  knee  to  earth,  according 
to  the  formula,  his  carbine  in  his  hands,  and  his 
hunting-knife  planted  proudly  before  him  in  the 
sand  of  the  shore. 

Night  came  on.  The  rosy  light  of  nature  turned 
to  violet,  then  to  a  sombre  blue  .  .  .  Below,  among 
the  pebbles  of  the  river,  a  little  pool  of  clear,  still 
water  shone  like  a  mirror.  This  was  plainly  the 
drinking-place  of  wild  animals.  On  the  slope  of 
the  opposite  bank  could  be  seen  the  path  their 
big  paws  made  among  the  mastjcs.  That  myste- 
rious slope  caused  a  shudder.  Add  to  all  this  the 
vague,  low,  swarming  noises  of  an  African  night, 
rustling  branches,  velvet  steps  of  rodent  creatures, 
the  shrilly  bark  of  jackals,  and  above,  in  the  sky, 
one  hundred,  two  hundred  yards  above  him,  great 
flocks  of  cranes  passing  with  a  cry  like  that  of 
strangled  children, — you  must  admit  there  was 
enough  in  all  this  to  agitate  any  one. 

Tartarin  was  agitated.  Very  much  so,  in  fact. 
His  teeth  chattered,  poor  man !  and  on  the  handle 
of  the  hunting-knife  planted  in  the  sand  the  muz- 
zle of  his  carbine  rattled  like  a  pair  of  castanets  .  .  . 
But  what  do  you  expect?  There  are  days  when 
persons  are  not  in  the  mood ;  besides,  where 
would  be  the  merit  if  heroes  were  never  afraid  ?  .  . 

Well,  yes !  Tartarin  was  afraid,  and  afraid  all 
the  time,  too.  Nevertheless  he  held  good  one 
hour,  two  hours  —  but  heroism  has  its  limits  .  .  . 
Very  near  to  him,  in  the  dry  bed  of  the  river,  he 
suddenly  heard  steps,  and  the  rolling  of  pebbles. 
This   time   terror   overcame   him.     He  fired   two 


1 1 8  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 

shots  at  random  and  ran  with  all  his  legs  to  the 
marabout^  leaving  his  cutlass  upright  in  the  sand  as 
a  commemorative  cross  of  the  greatest  panic  that 
ever  assailed  the  soul  of  a  slayer  of  hydras. 

"  Help,  pr^ince,  help  !  .  .  the  lion !  .  ." 

Silence. 

"  Preince,  prefnce  !  are  you  there  ?  " 

The  prince  was  not  there.  Against  the  white 
wall  of  the  marabout  that  excellent  camel  alone 
projected,  in  the  moonlight,  the  fantastic  shadow 
of  his  hump  .  .  .  Prince  Gregory  had  just  made 
off  with  the  wallet  and  the  bank-bills  —  his  High- 
ness having  awaited  the  opportunity  for  more  than 
a  month  .  .  . 


Ai  Last!  .  .  119 


VI. 


Atlast! ., 

The  day  following  this  tragic  and  adventurous 
evening,  when  our  hero  woke  at  dawn  and  ac- 
quired full  certainty  that  the  prince  and  his  funds 
were  really  gone  —  gone  without  return,  when  he 
found  himself  alone  in  that  little  white  tomb, 
betrayed,  robbed,  abandoned  in  the  wilds  of  savage 
Africa  with  a  dromedary  and  a  few  coppers  for  all 
resource,  —  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  Tarasconese 
hero  doubted.  He  doubted  friendship,  he  doubted 
fame,  he  even  doubted  lions ;  and,  hero  though  he 
was,  the  great  man  wept. 

Now,  while  he  was  pensively_seated  on  the  steps 
of  the  marabouty  his  head  in  his  two  hands,  his 
carbine  between  his  legs,  and  the  camel  looking 
sadly  at  him,  suddenly  the  branches  of  the  grove 
before  him  parted,  and  Tartarin,  stupefied,  saw, 
ten  steps  before  him,  a  gigantic  lion,  advancing, 
with  head  raised  high  and  formidable  roars  that 
shook  the  white  walls  of  the  marabout  and  the 
tinsel  that  hung  there,  and  even  the  slippers  of  the 
deceased  in  their  niche. 

The  hero,  alone,  did  not  tremble. 

*'  At  last !  "  he  cried,  bounding  up,  his  gun  to 
shoulder.  .  .      Pan  !  .  .  pan  !    pfft !     pfft !      'T  was 


I20  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

done.  .  .  In  the  lion's  head  were  two  explosive 
balls.  For  an  instant,  on  the  glowing  background 
of  an  African  sky,  rose  frightful  fireworks  of  scat- 
tered brains  and  smoking,  blood  and  tawny  fur. 
Then  all  subsided,  and  Tartarin  beheld  .  .  .  two  big 
and  furious  negroes  rushing  at  him  with  uplifted 
cudgels.     The  negroes  of  Milianah! 

Oh,  misery  !  't  was  the  tamed  lion,  the  poor  blind 
beast  of  Mohammed's  convent,  which  the  Tarascon- 
ese  bullets  had  now  laid  low ! 

This  time,  by  Mahomet!  Tartarin  had  a  fine 
escape.  Drunk  with  fanatic  fury  the  negro  men- 
dicants would  surely  have  torn  him  to  pieces  if  the 
God  of  Christians  had  not  sent  to  his  aid  a  liberat- 
ing angel,  the  garde-champetre  of  the  district  of 
Orleansville,  who  arrived,  his  sabre  under  his  arm, 
by  a  woodpath. 

The  sight  of  the  municipal  kdgii  calmed  the 
wrath  of  the  negroes  instantly.  Peaceful  and 
majestic  the  man  with  the  badge  drew  up  the 
proces-verbal,  loaded  what  remained  of  the  lion 
upon  the  camel,  ordered  complainants  and  delin- 
quent to  follow  him,  and  took  the  way  to  Orleans- 
ville, where  the  whole  affair  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  the  authorities. 

'Twas  a  long  and  terrible  investigation. 

After  the  Algeria  of  the  nomads,  which  he  had 
just  travelled  over,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  now  knew 
another  Algeria,  no  less  preposterous  and  formi- 
dable, the  Algeria  of  the  towns,  litigious  and  petti- 
foggingV  He  now  knew  the  squinting  judiciary 
which  plots  in  the  corners  of  cafes,  the  bohemia  of 


At  Last!  .  .  121 

the  limbs  of  the  law,  the  briefs  that  smelt  of  ab- 
sinthe, the  white  cravats  discoloured  with  crescia; 
he  knew  the  bailiffs,  the  solicitors,  the  business 
agents,  all  those  stamped-paper  grasshoppers, 
hungry  and  lean,  who  devour  the  colonist  to  the 
heels  of  his  boots,  and  strip  him,  leaf  by  leaf,  like 
a  stalk  of  wheat. 

First  of  all  it  became  necessary  to  discover 
whether  the  lion  was  killed  on  civil  territory  or  on 
military  territory.  In  the  first  case,  the  affair  was 
the  concern  of  the  tribunal  of  commerce ;  in  the 
second,  Tartarin  would  be  brought  before  the 
^council  of  war.  At  those  words,  "  council  of 
war,"  the  impressionable  Tarasconese  already  saw 
himself  shot  at  the  foot  of  the  ramparts,  or  crouch- 
ing in  dungeon  depths.  .  . 

The  terrible  thing  was,  that  the  boundaries  of 
the  two  territories  are  so  vague  in  Algeria.  .  .  At 
last,  however,  after  a  month  of  sendings  to  and  fro, 
intrigues,  waitings  in  the  sun  in  the  courtyards  of 
the  officials,  it  was  established  that  if,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  lion  was  killed  on  military  territory,  on 
the  other,  Tartarin,  when  he  fired,  was  on  civil 
territory.  The  affair  was  therefore  judged  in  the 
civil  courts  and  our  hero  got  off  with  a  fine  of 
two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  indemnity,  with- 
out costs. 

But  how  could  he  pay  it?  The  few  piastres  that 
escaped  the  prince's  raid  had  long  since  gone  in 
legal  papers  and  judiciary  absinthes. 

The  unfortunate  lion-slayer  was  therefore  reduced 
to  selling  his  case  of  weapons  piecemeal*  carbine 


i 


122  Tartarin  of  Tarascoii, 

by  carbine.  He  sold  the  daggers,  the  Malay 
krishes,   the    tomahawks.  .  .      A  i^rocer,^  bought 

the  alimentary  preserves.     An  apothecary  alljhgj; i 

was  left  of  the  diachylon.  Even  the  big  boots 
themselves^  de'paTtEa'''"an3""Tollowed  the  perfected 
shelter-tent  to  the  shop  of  a  merchant  of  bric-ci- 
brac,  who  raised  them  to  the  dignity  of  Cochin- 

\    Chinese    curiosities.  .  .       The    fine    paid,    nothing 

'^    remained  to  Tartarin  but  the  lion's  skin  and  the 
^romedarj^.     The  skin  he  packed  up  carefully  and 
(  sent  to  Tarascon,  directed  to  his  good  friend  the 
brave  Commander  Bravida  (we  shall  presently  see 
what  came    of  that  fabulous   hide).     As    for  the 
camel,  he  intended  to   use  that  to  convey  him  to 
/j  Algiers,  not  by  mounting  it,  but  by  selling  it  to 
"^  pay  the  diligence ;  which  is  a  better  way  of  travel- 
ling than  camel-back.     Unfortunately,  the  animal 
was  difficult  to  dispose  of;  not  a  soul  would  offer 
a  single  farthing^___ . ^^^..^ — — - — "^         """" 

^^  lartarirTwas,  however,  determined  to  get  back 
to  Algiers.  He  longed  to  see  his  Bai'a's  blue 
corselet,  his  little  house,  his  fountains,  and  to 
lie  at  rest  upon  the  trefoiled  pavement  of  his 
cloister,  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  funds  from 
France.   /Consequently,  our  hero  did  not  hesitate; 

"  distressed,  but  not  discouraged,  he  started  to  make 
the  journey  on  foot,  without  money,  and  by  short 
marches. 

In  this  conjuncture,  the  camel  did  not  abandon 
him.  That  weird  animal  was  possessed  by  an  in- 
explicable fondness  for  his  master,  and,  seeing  him 
depart  from  Orleansville,  he  set  out  religiously  to 


Al  Last!  .  .  123 

follow  at  a  walk  behind  him,  measuring  his  steps 
to  his  master's,  and  not  leaving  him  by  so  much 
as  an  inch. 

At  first,  Tartarin  thought  this  touching;  such 
fidelity,  such  tried  devotion  went  to  his  heart,  all  the 
more  because  the  animal  was  accommodating  and 
fed  on  nothing.  But  after  a  few  days'  march,  the 
hero  began  to  be  bored  by  having  such  a  melan- 
choly companion  perpetually  at  his  heels ;  a  com- 
panion who  recalled  to  him  his  many  misadventures. 
Presently,  bitterness  supervening,  he  grew  angry 
with  the  dromedary's  mournful  air,  his  hump,  and 
his  general  look  of  silliness.  To  tell  the  honest 
truth,  he  came  to  hate  him,  and  to  think  only  of 
how  to  get  rid  of  him ;  but  the  animal  held  tight.  .  . 
Tartarin  tried  to  lose  him,  the  camel  found  him ; 
he  tried  to  run,  the  camel  ran  faster.  .  .  He 
shouted  to  him  :  *'  Go  away  !  "  and  flung  stones  at 
him.  The  camel  stopped,  gazed  upon  him  with  a 
xuelancholy  eye,  then,  a  moment  later,  started 
again  and  caught  up  with  him.  Tartarin  was 
forced  to  resign  himself 

But  when,  after  a  march  of  eight  full  days,  the 
Tarasconese  hero,  dusty,  jad^d,  saw  from  afar, 
sparkling  amid  the  verdure,  the  first  white  terraces 
of  Algiers,  when  he  reached  the  gates  of  the  town 
on  the  noisy  highway  from  Mustapha  crowded  with 
zouaves,  biskris,  Mahonese,  all  swarming  around 
him  and  watching  him  defile  with  the  dromedary, 
his  patience  came  to  an  end :  "  No  4-«o  !  "  he  said 
to  himself,  "  it  is  impossible.  .  .  I  cannot  enter 
Algiers  with  such  a  beast !  "  and,  taking  advantage 


124  Tar  tar  in  of  Tarascon, 

of  a  block  of  vehicles  he  made  a  dart  into  the 
fields  and  hid  in  a  ditch.  .  . 

An  instant  later,  he  saw  above  his  head  on  the 
pavement  of  the  highway,  the  d^"omedary  swinging 
past  him  with  mighty  strides  and  stretching  out 
his  neck  with  an  anxious  air. 

Then,  relieved  of  a  heavy  burden,  the  hero 
issued  from  his  hiding-place  and  entered  the  town 
by  a  byway,  which  ran  along  the  wall  of  his 
little  garden. 


CatastropJies  on  Catastrophes,        125 


VII. 

Catastrophes  on  catastrophes. 

Arriving  in  front  of  his  Moorish  house,  Tar- 
tarin  stopped  short,  much  astonished.  It  was 
evening,  the  street  was  deserted.  Through  the 
low  arched  door,  which  the  negress  had  forgotten 
to  shut,  came  laughter,  the  rattle  of  glasses,  the 
popping  of  corks,  and,  rising  high  above  that 
pretty  racket,  the  voice  of  a  woman  singing, 
clearly  and  merrily :  — 

Lovest  thou,  Marco  la  Belle, 
To  dance  in  the  flowery  salons  ? 

"  Throne  of  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  Tarasconese, 
turning  white,  and  he  rushed  into  the  courtyard. 

Unhappy  Tartarin !  What  a  spectacle  awaited 
him !  .  .  Beneath  the  arcades  of  the  little  cloister, 
amid  flasks,  confectionery,  scattered  cushions, 
pipes,  tambourines,  guitars,  stood  Bai'a,  without 
corselet  or  jacket,  nothing  but  a  chemise  of  silver 
gauze  and  pale  rose  trousers,  singing  Marco  ta 
Belle  with  the  cap  of  a  naval  officer  perched  on 
one  ear.  .  .  On  a  mat  at  her  feet,  stuffed  with 
love  and  sweetmeats,  Barbassou,  that  infamous 
Barbassou,  was  bursting  with  laughter  as  he  listened 
to  her. 


126  Tar  tar  in  of  Tar  as  con. 

The  apparition  of  Tartarin,  haggard,  thinner, 
dusty;  his  eyes  flashing,  the  fez  bristhng,  cut 
short  this  amiable  Turco-Marseillaise  orgy.  Baia 
gave  the  little  cry  of  a  frightened  hare  and  ran  into 
the  house.  Barbassou,  not  disturbing  himself, 
laughed  louder  than  ever. 

**  Hey !  hey !  Monsieur  Tartarin,  what  do  you 
say  now?     Does  n't  she  speak  French?" 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  advanced,  furious. 

''  Captain !  " 

**  Digo-li  qu^  vengu^,  moun  bon!''  cried  Bai'a, 
bending  over  the  gallery  of  the  upper  floor  and 
making  a  pretty  canaille  gesture.  The  poor  man, 
thunderstruck,  let  himself  drop  upon  a  cushion. 
His  Moorish  lady  knew  the  Marseillaise  jargon ! 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  to  beware  of  the  Algerine 
women?"  said  Captain  Barbassou,  sententiously. 
"  They  are  just  the  same  as  that  Montenegrin 
prince  of  yours." 

Tartarin  raised  his  head. 

"Do  you  know  where  the  prince  is  now?"  he 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  not  far  off.  He  is  living  for  five  years  in 
that  fine  prison  at  Mustapha.  The  scamp  was 
caught  with  his  hand  in  the  bag.  .  .  But  it  is  not 
the  first  time  they  have  had  him  in  limbo.  His 
Highness  has  already  done  three  years  in  a  house 
of  detention  somewhere  .  .  .  and,  bless  me !  if  I 
don't  think  it  was  at  Tarascon." 

"At  Tarascon!.."  cried  Tartarin,  suddenly 
enlightened.  .  .  "That's  why  he  knew  only  one 
half  of  the  town.  .  ." 


Catastrophes  on   Catastrophes.         127 

"  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  Tarascon  seen  from 
the  prison  windows.  ,  .  Ah !  my  poor  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  we  have  to  keep  our  eyes  well  open  in 
this  damnable  country;  if  not,  we  are  liable  to 
very  disagreeable  things  .  .  .  such  as  your  affair 
with  the  muezzin.  .  ." 

"  What  affair?  what  muezzin?" 

"Hey!  pardi!  why,  the  muezzin  opposite,  who 
made  love  to  Bafa.  .  .  The  Akbar  related  the 
affair  the  other  day,  and  all  Algiers  is  still  laugh- 
ing over  it.  .  .  'Twas  droll  how  that  muezzin  on 
the  top  of  his  minaret,  chanting  his  prayers,  con- 
trived, under  your  very  nose,  to  make  his  proposals 
to  the  little  one  and  fix  a  rendezvous  while  invoking 
the  name  of  Allah.  .  ." 

"Is  every  one  a  villain  in  this  cursed  land?'* 
roared  Tartarin. 

Barbassou  made  the  gesture  of  a  philosopher. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  know,  new  countries !  .  . 
Never  mind  !  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  '11  go 
back  as  fast  as  you  can  to  Tarascon." 

"Go  .back  .  .  .  that's  easy  enough  to  say  .  .  . 
But  where  's  the  money?  .  .  You  don't  know  how 
they  've  plucked  me,  down  there,  in  the  desert." 

"  Never  mind  that !  "  cried  the  captain,  laughing. 
"  The  'Zouave  '  starts  to-morrow  and,  if  you  like, 
I  '11  take  you  back  to  your  native  land.  .  .  Will 
that  suit  you,  compatriot?  All  right.  You  have 
only  one  thing  more  to  do.  There  's  a  few  bottles 
of  champagne  and  half  a  crust  still  left  ...  sit  you 
down  there  .  .  .  and  no  rancour !  .  ." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  demanded  by  his 


128  Tar  tar  in  of  Tar  as  con. 

dignity,  Tartarin  bravely  chose  his  course.  He 
sat  down;  they  touched  glasses;  Baia  descended 
on  hearing  the  corks,  and  sang  the  last  verses  of 
Marco  la  Belle,  the  fete  lasting  far  into  the  night. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning,  his  head  light 
and  his  foot  heavy,  the  worthy  Tartarin  was  return- 
ing with  his  friend  the  captain  when,  on  passing 
the  mosque,  the  recollection  of  the  muezzin  and 
his  tricks  made  him  laugh,  and  suddenly  a  fine 
idea  of  vengeance  came  into  his  head.  The  door 
was  open.  He  went  in ;  followed  the  long  pas- 
sages covered  with  mats,  went  up,  up,  and  still  up, 
until  he  found  himself  in  a  Httle  Turkish  oratory, 
where  an  open-worked  iron  lantern  was  swaying 
from  the  roof  and  casting  fantastic  shadows  on  the 
walls. 

The  muezzin  was  seated  on  a  divan,  with  his  big 
turban,  his  white  mantle,  his  Mostaganem  pipe, 
and  before  him  a  large  glass  of  fresh  absinthe, 
which  he  sipped  religiously  while  awaiting  the  hour 
to  call  the  faithful  to  prayer.  .  .  Seeing  Tartarin, 
he  let  fall  his  pipe  in  terror. 

"  Not  a  word,  priest,"  said  the  hero,  full  of  his 
idea.     "  Quick,  your  turban  !  your  mantle  !  .  . 

The  muezzin,  trembling  violently,  gave  his  tur- 
ban, his  pelisse,  anything  demanded.  Tartarin 
put  them  on,  and  went  gravely  to  the  terrace  of 
the  minaret. 

The  sea  was  shining  in  the  distance.  The  white 
roofs  gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  Sounds  of  be- 
lated guitars  came  softly  on  the  breeze.  .  .  The 
Tarascon  muezzin  collected  himself  for  a  moment, 


( 


Catastrophes  on  Catastrophes,        129 

then,  raising  his  arm,  he  began  his  psalmody  in  a 
high-pitched  voice :  — 

"  La  Allah  il  Allah.  .  .  Mahomet  is  an  old 
rogue.  .  .  Orient,  Koran,  pachas,  Hons,  Moorish 
women  are  not  worth  a  damn.  .  .  There  are  no 
Teiirs.  .  .     Only  swindlers.  .  .     Vive  Tarascon  ! " 

And  while,  in  fantastic  jargon  mingled  with 
Arabic  and  Provencal,  the  illustrious  Tartarin  was 
thus  casting  to  the  four  corners  of  the  horizon,  on 
town,  plain,  mountain,  and  ocean,  his  jovial  male- 
diction, the  clear,  grave  voices  of  the  other  muez- 
zins answered  him  from  minaret  to  minaret,  and 
the  faithful  in  rapt  devotion  beat  their  breasts. 


130  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 


VIII. 

Tarascon  I  Tarascon  1 

Midday.  The  "Zouave"  has  her  steam  up, 
ready  to  start.  Overhead,  on  the  balcony  of  the 
Cafe  Valentin,  military  officers  level  their  telescopes 
and  come,  one  by  one,  according  to  rank,  the 
colonel  at  their  head,  to  watch  the  departure  of  the 
happy  little  boat  about  to  go  to  France.  This  is 
the  great  amusement  of  headquarters.  .  .  Below, 
the  roadstead  sparkles.  The  breeches  of  certain 
old  Turkish  cannon  buried  along  the  quay  flame 
in  the  sun.  The  passengers  are  hurrying.  Bisk- 
;is^and  Mahonese  pile  the  baggage  on  the  boats. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  has  no  baggage ;  and  here 
he  comes,  down  the  rue  de  la  Marine,  through  the 
little  market  full  of  bananas  and  watermelon,  ac- 
companied by  his  friend,  Captain  Barbassou.  The 
unfortunate  hero  has  left  upon  the  Moorish  shores 
his  weapons  and  his  illusions ;  he  is  now  preparing 
himself  to  sail  back  to  Tarascon,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  .  .  But  scarcely  had  he  jumped  into  the 
captain's  gig,  before  a  breathless  animal  rushed 
headlong  from  the  market-place,  and  precipitated 
itself  towards  him  at  a  gallop.  'Twas  the  camel, 
the  faithful  camel,  which  for  twenty-four  consecu- 
tive hovrs  had  been  seeking  its  master  in  Algiers. 


Tarascon  I   Tarascon  f  131 

Tartarin,  on  seeing  him,  changed  colour,  and 
^£tgjl£d  not  to  know  him.  But  the  camel  was  in 
earnest.  He  wriggled  at  the  edge  of  the  quay. 
He  called  to  his  friend  ;  he  looked  at  him  tenderly. 
"  Take  me !  take  me ! "  his  sad  eyes  seemed  to 
say ;  "  take  me  in  that  boat,  far,  far  away  from 
this  pasteboard  painted  Araby,  this  ridiculous 
Orient,  full  of  locomotives  and  diligences,  where 
I  —  poor  misplaced  dromedary — know  not  what 
will  become  of  me.  You  are  the  last  Turk,  /  am 
the  last  camel.  .  .  Let  us  part  no  more,  O  my 
Tartarin !  .  ." 

"  Is  that  camel  yours?"  asked  the  captain. 

"  Not  at  all !  "  responded  Tartarin,  who  shud- 
dered at  the  idea  of  re-entering  Tarascon  with  that 
ridiculous  attendant;  and,  impudently  disowning 
the  companion  of  his  misfortunes  he  spurned  the 
soil  of  Algiers  with  his  foot,  and  gave  the  boat  an 
impetus  that  sent  it  from  the  shore.  .  .  The  camel 
smelt  of  the  water,  stretched  his  long  neck  till  his 
joints  all  cracked,  and  springing  headlong  behind 
the  boat  he  swam  in  company  toward  ^  the 
"  Zouave,"  his  big  hump  floating  like  a  gourd,  and 
his  great  neck  rising  high  out  of  water  like  the 
prow  of  a  txireme. 

Boat  and  camel  arrived  together  under  the 
steamer's  quarter. 

*'  I  feel  badly  for  that  poor  dromedary,"  said 
Captain  Barbassou,  quite  touched.  ''  I  think  I  '11 
take  him  aboard,  and  make  a  present  of  him,  when 
I  reach  Marseilles,  to  the  Zoological  Garden." 

Accordingly  the  cameb  now  weighty  with  sea- 


132    \  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

water,  was  hoisted  on  board  by  a  great  force  of 
ropes  and  pulleys,  and  the  **  Zouave  "  set  sail. 

During  the  two  days  the  voyage  lasted,  Tartarin 
remained  alone  in  his  cabin ;  not  that  the  sea  was 
rough,  nor  that  the  fez  had  much  to  suffer,  but 
that  devil  of  a  camel  persisted  in  making  ridiculous 
demonstrations  whenever  his  master  appeared  on 
deck.  .  .  You  never  saw  a  camel  advertise  his 
master  like  that  one !  .  . 

Hour  by  hour,  through  the  porthole  of  the  cabin 
(from  which  he  occasionally  looked  out)  Tartarin 
watched  the  paling  of  the  Algerine  blue  sky;  till, 
at  last,  one  morning,  through  a  silvery  mist  he 
heard,  with  joy,  the  clanging  of  the  steeples  of 
Marseilles.  The  voyage  was  over  .  .  .  the  '*  Zou- 
ave "  anchored. 

r  Our  man,  who  had  no  baggage,  landed,  without 
saying  a  word,  crossed  Marseilles  in  haste,  afraid 
of  being  followed  by  the  camel,  and  only  breathed 
freely  when  he  found  himself  ensconced  in  a  third- 
class  railway-carriage,  and  moving  at  a  good  pace 
toward  Tarascon.  .  .  Deceptive  security !  Hardly 
had  they  gone  two  leagues  from  Marseilles,  when 
the  heads  of  all  the  passengers  were  at  the  windows. 
They  shouted,  they  wondered.  Tartarin  in  turn 
looked  out,  and  .  .  .  what  did  he  perceive?  .  .  The 
camel,  sir,  the  inevitable  camel,  loping  along  the 
rails  behind  the  train  and  keeping  up  with  it. 
Tartarin,  in  consternation,  sank  back  into  his 
corner,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

After  this  disastrous  expedition,  he  counted  on 
returning  to  his  house  incognito.     But  the  pres- 


Tarascon!   Tarasconf  133 

ence  of  this  i«cumbering  quadruped  rendered  the 
thing  impossible.  What  a  re-entrance  he  was 
about  to  make,  good  God !  Not  a  sou ;  not  a 
lion,  nothing.  .  .     A  camel !  .  . 

"  Tarascon  !  .  .     Tarascon  !  .  ." 

He  had  to  get  out.  .  . 

Oh,  stupefaction !  scarcely  had  the  hero's  fez 
appeared  at  the  carriage  door  than  a  great  cry: 
*'  Vive  Tartarin !  "  made  every  pane  of  glass  in  the 
roof  of  the  station  tremble.  "  Vive  Tartarin  !  .  . 
Long  live  the  lion-killer  !  "  Trumpets  flourished, 
the  choirs  of  the  Orphic  societies  burst  forth.  .  . 
Tartarin  felt  like  dying ;  he  thought  it  was  a  hoax. 
But  no !  all  Tarascon  was  there,  hats  in  the  air, 
and  sympathetic.  The  brave  Commander  Bravida, 
the  gunsmith  Costecalde,  the  judge,  the  apothecary, 
and  the  noble  army  of  sportsmen  (of  caps)  pressed 
around  their  leader  and  bore  him  in  triumph  down 
the  stairway. 

Singular  effects  of  rnirage  !  the  skin  of  the  blind 
lion,  sent  to  Bravida,  was  the  cause  of  this  ovation. 
That  modest  pelt,  placed  on  exhibition  at  the  club, 
had  turned  the  heads  of  the  Tarascon  people,  and 
behind  them  the  whole  South.  The  Semaphore 
spoke  of  it.  A  drama  was  constructed.  It  was 
not  one  lion  that  Tartarin  had  killed,  it  was  ten 
lions,  twenty  lions,  a  marmalade  of  lions !  So 
Tartarin,  disembarking  at  Marseilles,  was  already 
illustrious  unawares,  and  an  enthusiastic  telegram 
had  preceded  him  by  two  hours  to  his  native  town. 

But  that  which  put  a  climax  to  the  popular  joy 
was  the  sight  of  a  strange,  fantastic  animal,  cov- 


134  Tartari7i  of  Tarascon. 

ered  with  dust  and  sweat,  which  appeared  behind 
the  hero  and  descended,  clopetty-clop,  the  stair- 
way of  the  station.  Tarascon  fancied  for  a  moment 
that  La  Tarasque  had  returned. 

Tartarin  reassured  his  compatriots. 

"  That  is  my  camel,"  he  said. 

And  —  being  under  the  influence  of  the  Taras- 
conese  sun,  that  splendid  sun,  which  makes  them 
lie  so  ingenuously  —  he  added,  caressing  the  hump 
of  his  dromedary :  — 

''  'T  is  a  noble  beast !  .  .  He  saw  me  kill  all  my 
lions." 

Whereupon,  he  took,  familiarly,  the  arm  of  the 
brave  commander,  flushed  with  happiness,  and, 
followed  by  his  camel,  surrounded  by  his  fellow- 
sportsmen,  acclaimed  by  all  the  inhabitants,  he 
proceeded  tranquilly  to  the  house  of  the  baobab, 
and  as  he  walked  along  he  began  the  recital  of  his 
mighty  hunts. 

"  Imagine  to  yourselves  that  on  a  certain  evening, 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  Sahara  .  .  ." 


>VA*| 


TARTARIN   ON   THE   ALPS, 


TARTARIN    ON   THE   ALPS. 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm.  Who  is  it  f  What  was 
said  around  a  table  of  six  hundred  covers.  Rice  and 
Prunes.  An  improvised  ball.  The  Unknown  signs  his 
name  on  the  hotel  register.     P.  C.  A. 

On  the  loth  of  August,  1880,  at  that  fabled  hour 
of  the  setting  sun  so  vaunted  by  the  guide-books 
Joanne  and  Baedeker,  an  hermetic  yellow  fog, 
complicated  with  a  flurry  of  snow  in  white  spirals, 
enveloped  the  summit  of  the  Rigi  {Regiiia  mon- 
tium)  and  its  gigantic  hotel,  extraordinary  to  behold 
on  the  arid  waste  of  those  heights,  —  that  Rigi- 
Kulm,  glassed-in  like  a  conservatory,  massive  as  a 
citadel,  where  alight  for  a  night  and  a  day  a  flock 
of  tourists,  worshippers  of  the  sun. 

While  awaiting  the  second  dinner-gong,  the 
transient  inmates  of  the  vast  and  gorgeous  cara- 
vansary, half  frozen  in  their  chambers  above,  or 
gasping  on  the  divans  of  the  reading-rooms  in  the 
damp  heat  of  lighted  furnaces,  were  gazing,  in 
default  of  the  promised  splendours,  at  the  whirling 
white  atoms  and  the  lighting  of  the  great  lamps 


138  Tartarin  07i  the  Alps, 

on  the  portico,  the  double  glasses  of  which  were 
creaking  in  the  wind. 

To  climb  so  high,  to  come  from  all  four  corners 
of  the  earth  to  see  that.  .  .    Oh,  Baedeker !  .  . 

Suddenly,  something  emerged  from  the  fog 
and  advanced  toward  the  hotel  with  a  rattling 
of  metal,  an  exaggeration  of  motions,  caused  by- 
strange  accessories. 

At  a  distance  of  twenty  feet  through  the  fog  the 
torpid  tourists,  their  noses  against  the  panes,  the 
misses  with  curious  little  heads  trimmed  like  those 
of  boys,  took  this  apparition  for  a  cow,  and  then  for 
a  tinker  bearing  his  utensils. 

Ten  feet  nearer  the  apparition  changed  again, 
showing  a  crossbow  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  visored 
cap  of  an  archer  of  the  middle  ages,  with  the  visor 
lowered,  an  object  even  more  unlikely  to  meet 
with  on  these  heights  than  a  strayed  cow  or  an 
ambulating  tinker. 

On  the  portico  the  archer  was  no  longer  any- 
thing but  a  fat,  squat,  broad-backed  man,  who 
stopped  to  get  breath  and  to  shake  the  snow  from 
his  leggings,  made  like  his  cap  of  yellow  cloth,  and 
from  his  knitted  comforter,  which  allowed  scarcely 
more  of  his  face  to  be  seen  than  a  few  tufts  of 
grizzling  beard  and  a  pair  of  enormous  green 
spectacles  made  as  convex  as  the  glass  of  a  stereo- 
scope. An  alpenstock,  knapsack,  coil  of  rope 
worn  in  saltire,  crampons  and  iron  hooks  hanging 
to  the  belt  of  an  English  blouse  with  broad 
pleats,  completed  the  accoutrement  of  this  perfect 
Alpinist. 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm.       139 

On  the  desolate  summits  of  Mont  Blanc  or  the 
Finsteraarhorn  this  clambering  apparel  would  have 
seemed  very  natural,  but  on  the  Rigi-Kulm  ten  feet 
from  a  railway  track  !  — 

The  Alpinist,  it  is  true,  came  from  the  side 
opposite  to  the  station,  and  the  state  of  his  leggings 
testified  to  a  long  march  through  snow  and  mud. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  at  the  hotel  and 
its  surrounding  buildings,  seemingly  stupefied  at 
finding,  two  thousand  and  more  yards  above  the 
sea,  a  building  of  such  importance,  glazed  galler- 
ies, colonnades,  seven  storeys  of  windows,  and  a 
broad  portico  stretching  away  between  two  rows 
of  globe-lamps  which  gave  to  this  mountain- 
summit  the  aspect  of  the  Place  de  TOpera  of  a 
winter's  evening. 

But,  surprised  as  he  may  have  been,  the  people 
in  the  hotel  were  more  surprised  still,  and  when  he 
entered  the  immense  antechamber  an  inquisitive 
hustling  took  place  in  the  doorways  of  all  the 
salons :  gentlemen  armed  with  billiard-cues,  others 
with  open  newspapers,  ladies  still  holding  their 
book  or  their  work  pressed  forward,  while  in  the 
background,  on  the  landing  of  the  staircase,  heads 
leaned  over  the  baluster  and  between  the  chains  of 
the  lift. 

The  man  said  aloud,  in  a  powerful  deep  bass 
voice,  the  chest  voice  of  the  South,  resounding 
like  cymbals :  — 

"  Coqum  de  hon  sort !  what  an  atmosphere  !  " 

Then  he  stopped  short,  to  take  off  his  cap  and 
his  spectacles. 


140  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

He  was  suffocating. 

The  dazzle  of  the  lights,  the  heat  of  the  gas  and 
furnace,  in  contrast  with  the  cold  darkness  without, 
and  this  sumptuous  display,  these  lofty  ceilings, 
these  porters  bedizened  with  Regina  Montium  in 
letters  of  gold  on  their  naval  caps,  the  white 
cravats  of  the  waiters  and  the  battalion  of  Swiss 
girls  in  their  native  costumes  coming  forward  at 
sound  of  the  gong,  all  these  things  bewildered 
him  for  a  second  —  but  only  one. 

He  felt  himself  looked  at  and  instantly  recovered 
his  self-possession,  like  a  comedian  facing  a  full 
house. 

"  Monsieur  desires  .  .  ?  " 

This  was  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  making  the 
inquiry  with  the  tips  of  his  teeth,  a  very  dashing 
manager,  striped  jacket,  silken  whiskers,  the  head 
of  a  lady's  dressmaker. 

The  Alpinist,  not  disturbed,  asked  for  a  room, 
"  A  good  little  room,  ati.  mouain!'  perfectly  at  ease 
with  that  majestic  manager,  as  if  with  a  former 
schoolmate. 

But  he  came  near  being  angry  when  a  Bernese 
servant-girl,  advancing,  candle  in  hand,  and  stiff 
in  her  gilt  stomacher  and  puffed  muslin  sleeves, 
inquired  if  Monsieur  would  be  pleased  to  take  the 
lift.  The  proposal  to  commit  a  crime  would  not 
have  made  him  more  indignant. 

'*  A  lift !  he  !  .  .  for  him  !  .  ."  And  his  cry,  his 
gesture,  set  all  his  metals  rattling. 

Quickly  appeased,  however,  he  said  to  the 
maiden,  in  an  amiable  tone :  "  Pedibusse  ctintjam' 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm.       141 

bissCy  my  pretty  little  cat.  .  ."  And  he  went  up 
behind  her,  his  broad  back  filling  the  stairwa^, 
parting  the  persons  he  met  on  his  way,  while 
throughout  the  hotel  the  clamorous  questions  ran : 
**Who  is  he?  What's  this?"  muttered  in  the 
divers  languages  of  all  four  quarters  of  the  globe. 
Then  the  second  dinner-gong  sounded,  and  nobody 
thought  any  longer  of  this  extraordinary  personage. 

A  sight  to  behold,  that  dining-room  of  the 
Rigi-Kulm. 

Six  hundred  covers  around  an  immense  horse- 
shoe table,  where  tall,  shallow  dishes  of  rice  and 
of  prunes,  alternating  in  long  files  with  green 
plants,  reflected  in  their  dark  or  transparent  sauces 
the  flame  of  the  candles  in  the  chandeliers  and  the 
gilding  of  the  panelled  ceiling. 

As  in  all  Swiss  tables  d'hote y  rice  and  prunes 
divided  the  dinner  into  two  rival  factions,  and 
merely  by  the  looks  of  hatred  or  of  hankering  cast 
upon  those  dishes  it  was  easy  to  tell  to  which  party 
the  guests  belonged.  The  Rices  were  known  by 
their  anaemic  pallor,  the  Prunes  by  their  congested 
skins. 

That  evening  the  latter  were  the  most  numerous, 
counting  among  them  several  important  person- 
alities, European  celebrities,  such  as  the  great  his- 
torian Astier-R6hu,  of  the  French  Academy,  Baron 
von  Stolz,  an  old  Austro-Hungarian  diplomat, 
Lord  Chipendale  (?),  a  member  of  the  Jockey- 
Club  and  his  niece  (h'm,  h'm!),the  illustrious 
doctor-professor  Schwanthaler,  from  the  University 


142  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

of  Bonn,  a  Peruvian  general  with  eight  young 
daughters. 

To  these  the  Rices  could  only  oppose  as  a 
picket-guard  a  Belgian  senator  and  his  family, 
Mme.  Schwanthaler,  the  professor's  wife,  and  an 
Italian  tenor,  returning  from  Russia,  who  displayed 
his  cuffs,  with  buttons  as  big  as  saucers,  upon  the 
tablecloth. 

It  was  these  opposing  currents  which  no  doubt 
caused  the  stiffness  and  embarrassment  of  the 
company.  How  else  explain  the  silence  of  six 
hundred  half-frozen,  scowling,  distrustful  persons, 
and  the  sovereign  contempt  they  appeared  to 
affect  for  one  another?  A  superficial  observer 
might  perhaps  have  attributed  this  stiffness  to 
stupid  Anglo-Saxon  haughtiness  which,  nowa- 
days, gives  the  tone  in  all  countries  to  the  travel- 
ling world. 

No  !  no  !  Beings  with  human  faces  are  not  born 
to  hate  one  another  thus  at  first  sight,  to  despise 
each  other  with  their  very  noses,  Hps,  and  eyes  for 
lack  of  a  previous  introduction.  There  must  be 
another  cause. 

Rice  and  Prunes,  I  tell  you.  There  you  have 
the  explanation  of  the  gloomy  silence  weighing 
upon  this  dinner  at  the  Rigi-Kulm,  which,  consid- 
ering the  number  and  international  variety  of  the 
guests,  ought  to  have  been  lively,  tumultuous,  such 
as  we  imagine  the  repasts  at  the  foot  of  the  Tower 
of  Babel  to  have  been. 

The  Alpinist  entered  the  room,  a  little  over- 
come by  this  refectory  of  monks,  apparently  doing 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm,       143 

penance  beneath  the  glare  of  chandeliers;  he 
coughed  noisily  without  any  one  taking  notice  of 
him,  and  seated  himself  in  his  place  of  last-comer 
at  the  end  of  the  room.  Divested  of  his  accou- 
trements, he  was  now  a  tourist  like  any  other,  but 
of  aspect  more  amiable,  bald,  barrel-bellied,  his 
beard  pointed  and  bunchy,  his  nose  majestic,  his 
eyebrows  thick  and  ferocious,  overhanging  the 
glance  of  a  downright  good  fellow. 

Rice  or  Prunes?     No  one  knew  as  yet. 

Hardly  was  he  installed  before  he  became  un- 
easy, and  leaving  his  place  with  an  alarming 
bound:  ''Ouf!  what  a  draught!"  he  said  aloud, 
as  he  sprang  to  an  empty  chair  with  its  back  laid 
over  on  the  table. 

He  was  stopped  by  the  Swiss  maid  on  duty  — 
from  the  canton  of  Uri,  that  one  —  silver  chains 
and  white  muslin  chemisette. 

"  Monsieur,  this  place  is  engaged.  .  ." 

Then  a  young  lady,  seated  next  to  the  chair,  of 
whom  the  Alpinist  could  see  only  her  blond  hair 
rising  from  the  whiteness  of  virgin  snows,  said, 
without  turning  round,  and  with  a  foreign  accent: 

"  That  place  is  free ;  my  brother  is  ill,  and  will 
not  be  down." 

*'I11?  .  ."  said  the  Alpinist,  seating  himself,  with 
an  anxious,  almost  affectionate  manner.  .  .  "111? 
Not  dangerously,  au  moinsy 

He  said  au  moiiain^  and  the  word  recurred  in  all 
his  remarks,  with  other  vocable  parasites,  such  as 
///,  ^///,  //,  zo2i^  v^y  vat,  et  autrementy  diff^rentmenty 
etc.,  still  further  emphasized  by  a  Southern  accent. 


144  Tartarm  on  the  Alps, 

displeasing,  apparently,  to  the  young  lady,  for  she 
answered  with  a  glacial  glance  of  a  black  blue,  the 
blue  of  an  abyss. 

His  neighbour  on  the  right  had  nothing  encour- 
aging about  him  either ;  this  was  the  Italian  tenor, 
a  gay  bird  with  a  low  forehead,  oily  pupils,  and 
the  moustache  of  a  matador,  which  he  twirled  with 
nervous  fingers  at  being  thus  separated  from  his 
pretty  neighb/our.  But  the  good  Alpinist  had  a 
habit  of  talking  as  he  ate ;  it  was  necessary  for  his 
health. 

''  Ve !  the  pretty  buttons  .  .  ."  he  said  to  him- 
self, aloud,  eying  the  cuffs  of  his  neighbour. 
"  Notes  of  music,  inlaid  in  jasper  —  why,  the  effect 
is  charmain  !  .  !' 

His  metallic  voice  rang  on  the  silence,  but  found 
no  echo. 

"  Surely  monsieur  is  a  singer,  quiV 

'' Non  capiscOy'  growled  the  Italian  into  his 
moustache. 

For  a  moment  the  man  resigned  himself  to  de- 
vour without  uttering  a  word,  but  the  morsels 
choked  him.  At  last,  as  his  opposite  neighbour, 
the  Austro-Hungarian  diplomat,  endeavoured  to 
reach  the  mustard-pot  with  the  tips  of  his  shaky 
old  fingers,  covered  with  mittens,  he  passed  it  to 
him  obligingly.  **  Happy  to  serve  you.  Monsieur 
le  baron,"  for  he  had  heard  some  one  call  him  so. 

Unfortunately,  poor  M.  de  Stoltz,  in  spite  of  his 
shrewd  and  knowing  air  contracted  in  diplomatic 
juggling,  had  now  lost  both  words  and  ideas,  and 
was  travelling  among  the  mountains  for  the  special 


Apparitio7i  on  the  Rigi-Kulm,       145 

purpose  of  recovering  them.  He  opened  his  eyes 
wide  upon  that  unknown  face,  and  shut  them  again 
without  a  word.  It  would  have  taken  ten  old 
diplomats  of  his  present  intellectual  force  to  have 
constructed  in  common  a  formula  of  thanks. 

At  this  fresh  failure  the  Alpinist  made  a  terrible 
grimace,  and  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  he  seized 
the  bottle  standing  near  him  might  have  made  one 
fear  he  was  about  to  cleave  the  already  cracked 
head  of  the  diplomatist.  Not  so  !  It  was  only  to 
offer  wine  to  his  pretty  neighbour,  who  did  not 
hear  him,  being  absorbed  by  a  semi-whispered  con- 
versation in  a  soft  and  lively  foreign  warble  with 
two  young  men  seated  next  to  her.  She  bent  to 
them,  and  grew  animated.  Little  frizzles  of  hair 
were  seen  shining  in  the  light  against  a  dainty, 
transparent,  rosy  ear.  .  .  Polish,  Russian,  Nor- 
wegian?. .  from  the  North  certainly ;  and  a  pretty 
song  of  those  distant  lands  coming  to  his  lips,  the 
man  of  the  South  began  tranquilly  to  hum :  — 

O  coumtesso  gento, 
Estelo  dou  Nord, 
Que  la  neu  argento, 
Qu'  Amour  friso  en  or.^ 

The  whole  table  turned  round;  they  thought 
him  mad.  He  coloured,  subsided  into  his  plate, 
and  did  not  issue  again  except   to  repulse  vehe- 

1  O  pretty  countess, 
Light  of  the  North, 
Which  the  snow  silvers. 
And  Love  curls  in  gold.     {Fridhnc  Mistral^ 
10 


146  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

mently  one  of  the  sacred  compote-dishes  that  was 
handed  to  him. 

**  Prunes  !  again  ! .  .  Never  in  my  life  !  " 

This  was  too  much. 

A  grating  of  chairs  was  heard.  The  acade- 
mician, Lord  Chipendale  (?),  the  Bonn  professor, 
and  other  notabiHties  rose,  and  left  the  room  as  if 
protesting. 

The  Rices  followed  almost  immediately,  on  see- 
ing the  second  compote-dish  rejected  as  violently 
as  the  first. 

Neither  Rice  nor  Prunes  !  .  .  then  what  1 .  . 

All  withdrew ;  and  it  was  truly  glacial,  that  silent 
defile  of  scornful  noses  and  mouths  with  their 
corners  disdainfully  turned  down  at  the  luckless 
man,  who  was  left  alone  in  the  vast  gorgeous 
dining-room,  engaged  in  sopping  his  bread  in  his 
wine  after  the  fashion  of  his  country,  crushed 
beneath  the  weight  of  universal  disdain. 

My  friends,  let  us  never  despise  any  one.  Con-^ 
tempt  is  the  resource  of  parvenus,  prigs,  ugly  folk, 
and  fools ;  it  is  the  mask  behind  which  nonentity 
shelters  itself,  and  sometimes  blackguardism ;  it 
dispenses  with  mind,  judgment,  and  good-will.  All 
humpbacked  persons  are  contemptuous ;  all 
crooked  noses  wrinkle  with  disdain  when  they  see 
a  straight  one. 

He  knew  that,  this  worthy  Alpinist.  Having 
passed,  by  several  years,  his  "  fortieth,"  that  land- 
ing on  the  fourth  storey  where  man  discovers  and 
picks  up  the   magic    key  which  opens  life   to  its 


Apparitio7i  on  tJie  Rigi-Kulnt.       147 

recesses,  and  reveals  its  monotonous  and  deceptive 
labyrinth  ;  conscious,  moreover,  of  his  value,  of  the 
importance  of  his  mission,  and  of  the  great  name  he 
bore,  he  cared  nothing  for  the  opinion  of  such 
persons  as  these.  He  knew  that  he  need  only- 
name  himself  and  cry  out  "  'T  is  I.  .  .  "  to  change  to 
grovelling  respect  those  haughty  Hps;  but  he 
found  his  incognito  amusing. 

He  suffered  only  at  not  being  able  to  talk,  to 
make  a  noise,  unbosom  himself,  press  hands,  lean 
familiarly  on  shoulders,  and  call  men  by  their 
Christian  names.  That  is  what  oppressed  him  on 
the  Rigi-Kulm. 

Oh  !  above  all,  not  being  able  to  speak. 

*'  I  shall  have  dyspepsia  as  sure  as  fate,"  said  the 
poor  devil,  wandering  about  the  hotel  and  not 
knowing  what  to  do  with  himself. 

He  entered  a  cafe,  vast  and  deserted  as  a  church 
on  a  week  day,  called  the  waiter,  "  My  good 
friend,"  and  ordered  "  a  mocha  without  sugar,  qu^^ 
And  as  the  waiter  did  not  ask,  "  Why  no  sugar?  " 
the  Alpinist  added  quickly,  '* '  T  is  a  habit  I  acquired 
in  Africa,  at  the  period  of  my  great  hunts." 

He  was  about  to  recount  them,  but  the  waiter 
had  fled  on  his  phantom  slippers  to  Lord  Chip- 
endale,  stranded,  full  length,  upon  a  sofa  and 
crying,  in  mournful  tones :  "  Tchempegne !  .  . 
tchempegne !  .  .  "  The  cork  flew  with  its  silly 
noise,  and  nothing  more  was  heard  save  the  gusts  of 
wind  in  the  monumental  chimney  and  the  hissing 
click  of  the  snow  against  the  panes. 

Very  dismal  too  was  the  reading-room ;  all  the 


148  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

journals  in  hand,  hundreds  of  heads  bent  down 
around  the  long  green  tables  beneath  the  reflectors. 
From  time  to  time  a  yawn,  a  cough,  the  rustle  of  a 
turned  leaf;  and  soaring  high  above  the  calm  of 
this  hall  of  study,  erect  and  motionless,  their  backs 
to  the  stove,  both  solemn  and  both  smelling 
equally  musty,  were  the  two  pontiffs  of  official 
history,  Astier-Rehu  and  Schwanthaler,  whom  a 
singular  fatality  had  brought  face  to  face  on  the 
summit  of  the  Rigi,  after  thirty  years  of  insults  and 
of  rending  each  other  to  shreds  in  explanatory 
notes  referring  to  **  Schwanthaler,  jackass,"  "  vir 
ijieptissimiis,  Astier-Rehu ." 

You  can  imagine  the  reception  which  the  kindly 
Alpinist  received  on  drawing  up  a  chair  for  a  bit 
of  instructive  conversation  in  that  chimney  corner. 
From  the  height  of  these  two  caryatides  there  fell 
upon  him  suddenly  one  of  those  currents  of  air  of 
which  he  was  so  afraid.  He  rose,  paced  the  hall, 
as  much  to  warm  himself  as  to  recover  self-cpnfi-' 
dence,  and  opened  the  bookcase.  A  few  English 
novels  lay  scattered  about  in  company  with  sev- 
eral heavy  Bibles  and  tattered  volumes  of  the 
Alpine  Club.  He  took  up  one  of  the  latter,  and 
carried  it  off  to  read  in  bed,  but  was  forced  to 
leave  it  at  the  door,  the  rules  not  allowing  the 
transference  of  the  library  to  the  chambers. 

Then,  still  continuing  to  wander  about,  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  billiard-room,  where  the 
Italian  tenor,  playing  alone,  was  producing  effects 
of  torso  and  cuffs  for  the  edification  of  their  pretty 
neighbour,  seated  on  a  divan,  between  the    two 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Kulm,       149 

young  men,  to  whom  she  was  reading  a  letter. 
On  the  entrance  of  the  Alpinist  she  stopped,  and 
one  of  the  young  men  rose,  the  taller,  a  sort  of 
moujik,  a  dog-man,  with  hairy  paws,  and  long, 
straight,  shining  black  hair  joining  an  unkempt 
beard.  He  made  two  steps  in  the  direction  of  the 
new-comer,  looked  at  him  provocatively,  and  so 
fiercely  that  the  worthy  Alpinist,  without  demand- 
ing an  explanation,  made  a  prudent  and  judicious 
half-turn  to  the  right. 

"  Diff&emmenty  they  are  not  affable,  these  North- 
erners," he  said  aloud;  and  he  shut  the  door 
noisily,  to  prove  to  that  savage  that  he  was  not 
afraid  of  him. 

The  salon  remained  as  a  last  refuge ;  he  went 
there.  .  .  Coquin  de  sort !  ...  The  morgue,  my 
good  friends,  the  morgue  of  the  Saint-Bernard 
where  the  monks  expose  the  frozen  bodies  found 
beneath  the  snows  in  the  various  attitudes  in  which 
congealing  death  has  stiffened  them,  can  alone 
describe  that  salon  of  the  Rigi-Kulm. 

All  those  numbed,  mute  women,  in  groups  upon 
the  circular  sofas,  or  isolated  and  fallen  into  chairs 
here  and  there ;  all  those  misses,  motionless  be- 
neath the  lamps  on  the  round  tables,  still  holding 
in  their  hands  the  book  or  the  work  they  were  em- 
ployed on  when  the  cold  congealed  them.  Among 
them  were  the  daughters  of  the  general,  eight 
little  Peruvians  with  saffron  skins,  their  features 
convulsed,  the  vivid  ribbons  on  their  gowns  con- 
trasting with  the  dead-leaf  tones  of  English  fash- 
ions ;   poor  little  sunny-climes,  easy  to  imagine  as 


ISO  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps. 

laughing  and  frolicking  beneath  their  cocoa-trees, 
and  now  more  distressing  to  behold  than  the  rest 
in  their  glacial,  mute  condition.  In  the  back- 
ground, before  the  piano,  was  the  death-mask  of 
the  old  diplomat,  his  mittened  hands  resting  inert 
upon  the  keyboard,  the  yellowing  tones  of  which 
were  reflected  on  his  face. 

Betrayed  by  his  strength  and  his  memory,  lost 
in  a  polka  of  his  own  composition,  beginning  it 
again  and  again,  unable  to  remember  its  conclu- 
sion,  the  unfortunate  Stoltz  had  gone  to  sleep 
while  playing,  and  with  him  all  the  ladies  on  the 
Rigi,  nodding,  as  they  slumbered,  romantic  curls, 
or  those  peculiar  lace  caps,  in  shape  like  the  crust 
of  a  vol-au-vent,  that  English  dames  affect,  and 
which  seem  to  be  part  of  the  cant  of  travelling. 

The  entrance  of  the  Alpinist  did  not  awaken 
them,  and  he  himself  had  dropped  upon  a  divan, 
overcome  by  such  icy  discouragement,Twhen  the 
sound  of  vigorous,  joyous  chords  burst  from  the 
vestibule ;  where  three  "  musicos,"  harp,  flute,  and 
violin,  ambulating  minstrels  with  pitiful  faces,  and 
long  overcoats  flapping  their  legs,  who  infest  the 
Swiss  hostelries,  had  just  arrived  with  their  instru- 
ments. 

At  the  very  first  notes  our  man  sprang  up  as  if 
galvanized. 

"  Zou  !  bravo  !  .  .  forward,  music  !  " 

And  off  he  went,  opening  the  great  doors,  feting 
the  musicians,  soaking  them  with  champagne, 
drunk  himself  without  drinking  a  drop,  solely  with 
the  music  which  brought  him  back  to  life.     He 


Apparition  on  tlie  Rigi-Kulm,       151 

mimicked  the  piston,  he  mimicked  the  harp,  he 
snapped  his  fingers  over  his  head,  and  rolled  his 
eyes  and  danced  his  steps,  to  the  utter  stupefaction 
of  the  tourists  running  in  from  all  sides  at  the 
racket.  Then  suddenly,  as  the  exhilarated  musicos 
struck  up  a  Strauss  waltz  with  the  fury  of  true 
tzigan^s,  the  Alpinist,  perceiving  in  the  doorway 
the  wife  of  Professor  Schwanthaler,  a  rotund  little 
Viennese  with  mischievous  eyes,  still  youthful  in 
spite  of  her  powdered  gray  hair,  he  sprang  to  her, 
caught  her  by  the  waist,  and  whirled  her  into  the 
room,  crying  out  to  the  others  :  "  Come  on  !  come^ 
on  !  let  us  waltz  !  " 

The  impetus  was  given,  the  hotel  thawed  and 
twirled,  carried  off  its  centre.  People  danced  in 
the  vestibule,  in  the  salon,  round  the  long  green 
table  of  the  reading-room.  'T  was  that  devil  of  a 
man  who  set  fire  to  ice.  He,  however,  danced  no 
more,  being  out  of  breath  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of 
turns;  but  he  guided  his  ball,  urged  the  musicians, 
coupled  the  dancers,  cast  into  the  arms  of  the 
Bonn  professor  an  elderly  Englishwoman,  and  into 
those  of  the  austere  Astier-Rehu  the  friskiest  of 
the  Peruvian  damsels.  Resistance  was  impossible. 
From  that  terrible  Alpinist  issued  I  know  not  what 
mysterious  aura  which  lightened  and  buoyed  up 
every  one.  And  zou  !  zoii  !  zou  !  No  more  con- 
tempt and  disdain.  Neither  Rice  nor  Prunes, 
only  waltzers.  Presently  the  madness  spread ; 
it  reached  the  upper  storeys,  and  up  through  the 
well  of  the  staircase  could  be  seen  to  the  sixth- 
floor  landing  the  heavy  and  high-coloured  skirts  of 


152  Tartarm  on  the  Alps, 

the  Swiss  maids  on  duty,  twirling  with  the  stiffness 
of  automatons  before  a  musical  chalet. 

Ah  !  the  wind  may  blow  without  and  shake  the 
lamp-posts,  make  the  telegraph  wires  groan,  and 
whirl  the  snow  in  spirals  across  that  desolate 
summit.  Within  all  are  warm,  all  are  comforted, 
and  remain  so  for  that  one  night. 

**  Differemment,  I  must  go  to  bed,  myself," 
thought  the  worthy  Alpinist,  a  prudent  man, 
coming  from  a  country  where  every  one  packs  and 
unpacks  himself  rapidly.  Laughing  in  his  grizzled 
beard,  he  slipped  away,  covertly  escaping  Madame 
Schwanthaler,  who  was  seeking  to  hook  him  again 
ever  since  that  initial  waltz. 

He  took  his  key  and  his  bedroom  candle ;  then, 
on  the  first  landing,  he  paused  a  moment  to  enjoy 
his  work  and  to  look  at  the  mass  of  congealed 
ones  whom  he  had  forced  to  thaw  and  amuse 
themselves. 

A  Swiss  maid  approached  him  all  breathless 
from  the  waltz,  and  said,  presenting  a  pen  and 
the  hotel  register:  — 

**  Might  I  venture  to  ask  mossie  to  be  so  good  as 
to  sign  his  name?  " 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  Should  he,  or  should 
he  not  preserve  his  incognito? 

After  all,  what  matter !  Supposing  that  the 
news  of  his  presence  on  the  Rigi  should  reach 
down  there,  no  one  would  know  what  he  had  come 
to  do  in  Switzerland.  And  besides,  it  would  be 
so  droll  to  see,  to-morrow  morning,  the  stupor  of 
those  "  Inglichemans  "  when  they  should  learn  the 


Apparition  on  the  Rigi-Ktclm,       153 

truth.  .  .  For  that  Swiss  girl,  of  course,  would  not 
hold  her  tongue.  .  .  What  surprise,  what  excite- 
ment throughout  the  hotel !  .  . 

"  Was  it  really  he?  .  .  he?  .  .  himself?  .  ." 
These  reflections,  rapid  and  vibrant,  passed 
through  his  head  like  the  notes  of  a  violin  in  an 
orchestra.  He  took  the  pen,  and  with  careless  hand 
he  signed,  beneath  Schwanthaler,  Astier-Rehu,  and 
other  notabilities,  the  name  that  eclipsed  them 
all,  his  name ;  then  he  went  to  his  room,  without 
so  much  as  glancing  round  to  see  the  effect,  of 
which  he  was  sure. 

Behind  him  the  Swiss  niaid  looked  at  the  name : 

TARTARIN   OF  TARASCON, 

beneath  which  was  added : 

P.  C.  A. 

She  read  it,  that  Bernese  girl,  and  was  not  the 
least  dazzled.  She  did  not  know  what  P.  C  A. 
signified,  nor  had  she  ever  heard  of  **  Dardarin." 

Barbarian,  Vat! 


154  Tar  tar  in  07i  the  Alps, 


II. 

Tarascon^  five  minutes'  stop  !  The  Club  of  the  Alpines. 
Explanation  of  P.  C.  A.  Rabbits  of  warren  and  cabbage 
rabbits.  This  is  my  last  will  and  testament.  The  Strop 
de  cadavre.  First  ascension.  Tartarin  takes  out  his 
spectacles. 

When  that  name  **  Tarascon  "  sounds  trumpet- 
like along  the  track  of  the  Paris-Lyons-Mediter- 
ranean, in  the  limpid,  vibrant  blue  of  a  Provencal 
sky,  inquisitive  heads  are  visijDle  at  all  the  doors 
of  the  express  train,  and  from  carriage  to  carriage 
the  travellers  say  to  each  other:  "Ah!  here  is 
Tarascon  !   .  .     Now,  for  a  look  at  Tarascon." 

What  they  can  see  of  it  is,  nevertheless,  nothing 
more  than  a  very  ordinary,  quiet,  clean  little  town 
with  towers,  roofs,  and  a  bridge  across  the  Rhone. 
But  the  Tarasconese  sun  and  its  marvellous  effects  of 
mirage,  so  fruitful  in  surprises,  inventions,  delirious 
absurdities,  this  joyous  little  populace,  not  much 
larger  than  a  chick-pea,  which  reflects  and  sums 
up  in  itself  the  instincts  of  the  whole  French 
South,  lively,  restless,  gabbling,  exaggerated,  com- 
ical, impressionable  —  that  is  what  the  people 
on  the  express-train  look  out  for  as  they  pass,  and 
it  is  that  which  has  made  the  popularity  of  the 
place. 


Tarascon,  Five  Minutes    Stop!       155 

In  memorable  pages,  which  modesty  prevents 
him  from  mentioning  more  explicitly,  the  histor- 
iographer of  Tarascon  essayed,  once  upon  a  time, 
to  depict  the  happy  days  of  the  little  town,  leading 
its  club  life,  singing  its  romantic  songs  (each  his 
own)  and,  for  want  of  real  game,  organizing  curious 
cap-hunts.  Then,  war  having  come  and  the  dark 
times,  Tarascon  became  known  by  its  heroic 
defence,  its  torpedoed  esplanade,  the  club  and  the 
Cafe  de  la  Comedie,  both  made  impregnable;  all 
the  inhabitants  enrolled  in  guerilla  companies, 
their  breasts  braided  with  death's  head  and  cross- 
bones,  all  beards  grown,  and  such  a  display 
of  battle-axes,  boarding  cutlasses,  and  American 
revolvers  that  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  ended 
by  frightening  themselves  and  no  longer  daring  to 
approach  one  another  in  the  streets. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  the  war,  many  a 
worthless  almanac  has  been  put  in  the  fire,  but 
Tarascon  has  never  forgotten ;  and,  renouncing  the 
futile  amusements  of  other  days,  it  thinks  of  noth- 
ing now  but  how  to  make  blood  and  muscle  for 
the  service  of  future  revenge.  Societies  for  pistol- 
shooting  and  gymnastics,  costumed  and  equipped, 
all  having  band  and  banners;  armouries,  boxing- 
gloves,'  single-sticks,  list-shoes;  foot  races  and 
flat-hand  fights  between  persons  in  the  best  society; 
these  things  have  taken  the  place  of  the  former 
cap-hunts  and  the  platonic  cynegetical  discussions 
in  the  shop  of  the  gunsmith  Costecalde. 

And  finally  the  club,  the  old  club  itself,  abjur- 
ing  bouillotte  and   bezique,    is  now   transformed 


156  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

into  a  ''  Club  Alpln  "  under  the  patronage  of  the 
famous  Alpine  Club  of  London,  which  has  borne 
even  to  India  the  fame  of  its  climbers.  With  this 
difference,  that  the  Tarasconese,  instead  of  expat- 
riating themselves  on  foreign  summits,  are  content 
with  those  they  have  in  hand,  or  rather  underfoot, 
at  the  gates  of  their  town. 

"The  Alps  of  Tarascon?"  you  ask.  No;  but 
the  Alpines,  that  chain  of  mountainettes,  redolent 
of  thyme  and  lavender,  not  very  dangerous,  nor 
yet  very  high  (five  to  six  hundred  feet  above 
sea-level),  which  make  an  horizon  of  blue  waves 
along  the  Provengal  roads  and  are  decorated  by 
the  local  imagination  with  the  fabulous  and  char- 
acteristic names  of:  Moimt  ^Terrible;  The  End  of 
the   World ;   The  Peak  of  the  Giants,  etc. 

'  T  is  a  pleasure  to  see,  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
the  gaitered  Tarasconese,  pickaxe  in  hand,  knap- 
sack and  tent  on  their  backs,  starting  off,  bugles 
in  advance,  for  ascensions,  of  which  the  Forum,  the 
local  journal,  gives  full  account  with  a  descriptive 
luxury  and  wealth  of  epithets  —  abysses,  gulfs, 
terrifying  gorges  —  as  if  the  said  ascension  were 
among  the  Himalayas.  You  can  well  believe  that 
from  this  exercise  the  aborigines  have  acquired 
fresh  strength  and  the  "  double  muscles  "  hereto- 
fore reserved  to  the  only  Tartarin,  the  good,  the 
brave,  the  heroic  Tartarin. 

If  Tarascon  epitomizes  the  South,  Tartarin  epit- 
omizes Tarascon.  He  is  not  only  the  first  citizen 
of  the  town,  he  is  its  soul,  its  genius,  he  has  all  its 
finest  whimseys.     We   know  his  former  exploits, 


Tarascon,  Five  Mlmctes    Stop  I       157 

his  triumphs  as  a  singer  (oh  !  that  duet  of"  Robert 
le  Diable "  in  B^zuquet's  pharmacy !),  and  the 
amazing  odyssey  of  his  lion-hunts,  from  which  he 
returned  with  that  splendid  camel,  the  last  in 
Algeria,  since  deceased,  laden  with  honours  and 
preserved  in  skeleton  at  the  town  museum  among 
other  Tarasconese  curiosities. 

Tartarin  himself  has  not  degenerated;  teeth 
still  good  and  eyes  good,  in  spite  of  his  fifties; 
still  that  amazing  imagination  which  brings  nearer 
and  enlarges  all  objects  with  the  power  of  a  tele- 
scope. He  remains  the  same  man  as  he  of  whom 
the  brave  Commander  Bravida  used  to  say: 
*'  He 's  a  lapin.  .  .  " 

Or,  rather,  two  lapins !  For  in  Tartarin,  as  in 
all  the  Tarasconese,  there  is  a  warren  race  and  a 
cabbage  race,  very  clearly  accentuated :  the  roving 
rabbit  of  the  warren,  adventurous,  headlong;  and 
the  cabbage-rabbit,  homekeeping,  coddling,  ner- 
vously afraid  of  fatigue,  of  draughts,  and  of  any  and 
all  accidents  that  may  lead  to  death. 

We  know  that  this  prudence  did  not  prevent  him 
from  showing  himself  brave  and  even  heroic  on 
occasion;  but  it  is  permissible  to  ask  what  he  was 
doing  on  the  Rigi  {Regina  Montiiini)  at  his  age, 
when  he  had  so  dearly  bought  the  right  to  rest 
and  comfort. 

To  that  inquiry  the  infamous  Costecalde  can 
alone  reply. 

Costecalde,  gunsmith  by  trade,  represents  a 
type  that  is  rather  rare  in  Tarascon.  Envy,  base, 
malignant  envy,  is  visible  in  the  wicked  curve  of 


158  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

his  thin  Hps,  and  a  species  of  yellow  bile,  proceed- 
ing from  his  liver  in  puffs,  suffuses  his  broad, 
clean-shaven,  regular  face,  with  its  surface  dented 
as  if  by  a  hammer,  like  an  ancient  coin  of  Tiberius 
or  Caracalla.  Envy  with  him  is  a  disease,  which 
he  makes  no  attempt  to  hide,  and,  with  the  fine 
Tarasconese  temperament  that  overlays  everything, 
he  sometimes  says  in  speaking  of  his  infirmity: 
"  You  don't  know  how  that  hurts  me.  .  .  " 

Naturally  the  curse  of  Costecalde  is  Tartarin. 
So  much  fame  for  a  single  man !  He  every- 
where !  always  he  !  And  slowly,  subterraneously, 
like  a  worm  within  the  gilded  wood  of  an  idol, 
he  saps  from  below  for  the  last  twenty  years  that 
triumphant  renown,  and  gnaws  it,  and  hollows 
it.  When,  in  the  evening,  at  the  club,  Tartarin 
relates  his  encounters  with  lions  and  his  wander- 
ings in  the  great  Sahara,  Costecalde  sits  by  with 
mute  little  laughs,  and  incredulous  shakes  of  the 
head. 

**  But  the  skins,  au  mouaiuj  Costecalde  .  .  .  those 
lions'  skins  he  sent  us,  which  are  there,  in  the 
salon  of  the  club?  .  ." 

"  T^  f  pardi.  .  .  Do  you  suppose  there  are  no 
furriers  in  Algeria?  .  . " 

"  But  the  marks  of  the  balls,  all  round,  in  the 
heads?" 

"  Et  aiitremain,  did  n't  we  ourselves  in  the  days 
of  the  cap-hunts  see  ragged  caps  torn  with  bullets 
at  the  hatters'  for  sale  to  clumsy  shots  ?  " 

No  doubt  the  long  established  fame  of  Tartarin  as 
a  slayer  of  wild  beasts  resisted  these  attacks ;  but 


Tarascon,  Five  Minutes    Stop!       159 

the  Alpinist  in  himself  was  open  to  criticism,  and 
Costecalde  did  not  deprive  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, being  furious  that  a  man  should  be  elected 
as  president  of  the  "  Club  of  the  Alpines  "  whom 
age  had  visibly  overweighted  and  whose  liking,  ac- 
quired in  Algeria,  for  Turkish  slippers  and  flowing 
garments  predisposed  to  laziness. 

In  fact,  Tartarin  seldom  took  part  in  the  ascen- 
sions; he  was  satisfied  to  accompany  them  with 
votive  wishes,  and  to  read  in  full  session,  with 
rolling  eyes,  and  intonations  that  turned  the  ladies 
pale,  the  tragic  narratives  of  the  expeditions. 

Costecalde,  on  the  contrary,  wiry,  vigorous 
**  Cock-leg,"  as  they  called  him,  was  always  the 
foremost  climber;  he  had  done  the  Alpines,  one 
by  one,  planting  on  their  summits  inaccessible  the 
banner  of  the  Club,  La  Tarasque,  starred  in  silver. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  only  vice-president,  V.  P.  C. 
A.  But  he  manipulated  the  place  so  well  that 
evidently,  at  the  coming  elections,  Tartarin  would 
be  made  to  skip. 

Warned  by  his  faithfuls  —  B^zuquet  the  apothe- 
cary, Excourbanies,  the  brave  Commander  Bravida 
—  the  hero  was  at  first  possessed  by  black  disgust, 
by  that  indignant  rancour  which  ingratitude  and 
injustice  arouse  in  the  noblest  soul.  He  wanted 
to  quit  everything,  to  expatriate  himself,  to  cross 
the  bridge  and  go  and  live  in  Beaucaire,  among 
the  Volsci ;   after  that,  he  grew  calmer. 

To  quit  his  little  house,  his  garden,  his  beloved 
habits,  to  renounce  his  chair  as  president  of  the 
Club  of  the  Alpines,  founded  by  himself,  to  resign 


i6o  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

that  majestic  P.  C.  A.  which  adorned  and  distin- 
guished his  cards,  his  letter-paper,  and  even  the 
Hning  of  his  hat!  Not  possible,  ve I  Suddenly 
there  came  into  his  head  an  electrifying  idea.  .  . 

In  a  word,  the  exploits  of  Costecalde  were 
limited  to  excursions  among  the  Alpines.  Why 
should  not  Tartarin,  during  the  three  months  that 
still  intervened  before  the  elections,  why  should  he 
not  attempt  some  grandiose  adventure?  plant, 
for  instance,  the  standard  of  the  Club  on  the 
highest  peak  of  Europe,  the  Jungfrau  or  the  Mont 
Blanc? 

What  triumph  on  his  return  !  what  a  slap  in  the 
face  to  Costecalde  when  the  Forum  should  publish 
an  account  of  the  ascension !  Who  would  dare  to 
dispute  his  presidency  after  that? 

Immediately  he  set  to  work;  sent  secretly  to 
Paris  for  quantities  of  works  on  Alpine  adventure : 
Whymper's  "  Scrambles,"  Tyndall's  "  Glaciers," 
the  '*  Mont-Blanc  "  of  Stephen  d'Arve,  reports  of 
the  Alpine  Club,  English  and  Swiss ;  cramming  his 
head  with  a  mass  of  mountaineering  terms  —  chim- 
neys, couloirs,  moulins,  neves,  seracs,  moraines, 
rotures  —  without  knowing  very  well  what  they 
meant. 

At  night,  his  dreams  were  fearful  with  inter- 
minable slides  and  sudden  falls  into  bottomless 
crevasses.  Avalanches  rolled  him  down,  icy 
aretes  caught  his  body  on  the  descent;  and  long 
after  his  waking  and  the  chocolate  he  always  took 
in  bed,  the  agony  and  the  oppression  of  that 
nightmare   clung   to   him.     But   all   this  did  not 


Tarascmi,  Five  Minutes    Stop!      i6i 

hinder  him,  once  afoot,  from  devoting  his  whole 
morning  to  the  most  laborious  training  exercises. 

Around  Tarascon  is  a  promenade  planted  with 
trees  which,  in  the  local  dictionary,  is  called  the 
"Tour  de  Ville."  Every  Sunday  afternoon,  the 
Tarasconese,  who,  in  spite  of  their  imagination, 
are  a  people  of  routine,  make  the  tour  of  their 
town,  and  always  in  the  same  direction.  Tartarin 
now  exercised  himself  by  making  it  eight  times,  ten 
times,  of  a  morning,  and  often  reversed  the  way. 
He  walked,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  with  short 
mountain-steps,  both  slow  and  sure,  till  the  shop- 
keepers, alarmed  by  this  infraction  of  local  habits, 
were  lost  in  suppositions  of  all  possible  kinds. 

At  home,  in  his  exotic  garden,  he  practised  the 
art  of  leaping  crevasses,  by  jumping  over  the  basin 
in  which  a  few  gold-fish  were  swimming  about 
among  the  water-weeds.  On  two  occasions  he 
fell  in,  and  was  forced  to  change  his  clothes.  Such 
mishaps  inspired  him  only  the  more,  and,  being 
subject  to  vertigo,  he  practised  walking  on  the 
narrow  masonry  round  the  edge  of  the  water,  to 
the  terror  of  his  old  servant-woman,  who  under- 
stood nothing  of  these  performances. 

During  this  time,  he  ordered,  in  Avignon^  from 
an  excellent  locksmith,  crampons  of  the  Whymper 
pattern,  and  a  Kennedy  ice-axe ;  also  he  procured 
himself  a  reed-wick  lamp,  two  impermeable  cover- 
lets, and  two  hundred  feet  of  rope  of  his  own 
invention,  woven  with  iron  wire. 

The  arrival  of  these  different  articles  from  Avi- 
gnon, the  mysterious  goings  and  comings  which 

II 


1 62  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

their  construction  required,  puzzled  the  Taras- 
conese  much,  and  it  was  generally  said  about 
town :  **  The  president  is  preparing  a  stroke." 
But  what?  Something  grand,  you  may  be  sure, 
for,  in  the  beautiful  words  of  the  brave  and  senten- 
tious Commander  Bravida,  retired  captain  of  equip- 
ment, who  never  spoke  except  in  apothegms: 
**  Eagles  hunt  no  flies." 

With  his  closest  intimates  Tartarin  remained 
impenetrable.  Only,  at  the  sessions  of  the  Club, 
they  noticed  the  quivering  of  his  voice  and  the 
lightning  flash  of  his  eyes  whenever  he  addressed 
Costecalde  —  the  indirect  cause  of  this  new  expe- 
dition, the  dangers  and  fatigues  of  which  became 
more  pronounced  to  his  mind  the  nearer  he 
approached  it.  The  unfortunate  man  did  not 
attempt  to  disguise  them ;  in  fact  he  took  so  black 
a  view  of  the  matter  that  he  thought  it  indispen- 
sable to  set  his  afl'airs  in  order,  to  write  those  last 
wishes,  the  expression  of  which  is  so  trying  to  the 
Tarasconese,  lovers  of  life,  that  most  of  them  die 
intestate. 

On  a  radiant  morning  in  June,  beneath  a  cloud- 
less arched  and  splendid  sky,  the  door  of  his 
study  open  upon  the  neat  little  garden  with  its 
gravelled  paths,  where  the  exotic  plants  stretched 
forth  their  motionless  lilac  shadows,  where  the 
fountain  tinkled  its  silvery  note  'mid  the  merry 
shouts  of  the  Savoyards,  playing  at  marbles  before 
the  gate,  behold  Tartarin !  in  Turkish  slippers, 
wide  flannel  under-garments,  easy  in  body,  his  pipe 
at  hand,  reading  aloud  as  he  wrote  the  words :  — 


Tarascon,  Five  Mhtutes    Stop!       163' 

"  This  is  my  last  will  and  testament." 

Ha !  one  may  have  one's  heart  in  the  right 
place  and  solidly  hooked  there,  but  these  are  cruel 
moments.  Nevertheless,  neither  his  hand  nor  his 
voice  trembled  while  he  distributed  among  his 
fellow-citizens  all  the  ethnographical  riches  piled 
in  his  little  home,  carefully  dusted  and  preserved 
in  immaculate  order. 

"To  the  Club  of  the  Alpines,  my  baobab  {arbos^ 
giganted),  to  stand  on  the  chimney-piece  of  the  hall 
of  sessions ;  " 

To  Bravida,  his  carbines,  revolvers,  hunting 
knives,  Malay  krishes,  tomahawks,  and  other 
murderous  weapons ; 

To  Excourbanies,  all  his  pipes,  calumets,  nar- 
ghiles, and   pipelets   for  smoking  kif  and  opium; 

To  Costecalde  —  yes,  Costecalde  himself  had 
his  legacy  —  the  famous  poisoned  arrows  (Do  not 
touch). 

Perhaps  beneath  this  gift  was  the  secret  hope 
that  the  traitor  would  touch  and  die ;  but  nothing 
of  the  kind  was  exhaled  by  the  will,  which  closed 
with  the  following  words,  of  a  divine  meekness : 

"  I  beg  my  dear  Alpinists  not  to  forget  their 
president.  .  .  I  wish  them  to  forgive  my  enemy 
as  I  have  forgiven  him,  although  it  is  he  who  has 
caused  my  death.  .  ." 

Here  Tartarin  was  forced  to  stop,  blinded  by 
a  flood  of  tears.  For  a  minute  he  beheld  himself 
crushed,  lying  in  fragments  at  the  foot  of  a  high 
mountain,  his  shapeless  remains  gathered  up  in  a 
barrow,  and  brought  back  to  Tarascon.     Oh,  the 


1 64  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

power  of  that  Provencal  imagination !  he  was 
present  at  his  own  funeral ;  he  heard  the  lugubri- 
ous chants,  and  the  talk  above  his  grave :  *'  Poor 
Tartarin,  pechhe  !  "  and,  mingling  with  the  crowd 
of  his  faithful  friends,  he  wept  for  himself. 

But  immediately  after,  the  sight  of  the  sun 
streaming  into  his  study  and  glittering  on  the 
weapons  and  pipes  in  their  usual  order,  the  song 
of  that  thread  of  a  fountain  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden  recalled  him  to  the  actual  state  of  things. 
Differemmenty  why  die?  Why  go,  even?  Who 
obliged  him?  What  foolish  vanity!  Risk  his  Hfe 
for  a  presidential  chair  and  three  letters  ! .  . 

T  was  a  passing  weakness,  and  it  lasted  no 
longer  than  any  other.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes 
the  will  was  finished,  signed,  the  flourish  added, 
sealed  with  an  enormous  black  seal,  and  the  great 
man  had  concluded  his  last  preparations  for 
departure. 

Once  more  had  the  warren  Tartarin  triumphed 
over  the  cabbage  Tartarin.  It  could  be  said  of  tlie 
Tarasconese  hero,  as  was  said  of  Turenne :  *' His 
body  was  not  always  willing  to  go  into  battle,  but 
his  will  led  him  there  in  spite  of  himself." 

The  evening  of  that  same  day,  as  the  last  stroke 
of  ten  was  sounding  from  the  tower  of  the  town- 
hall,  the  streets  being  already  deserted,  a  man, 
after  brusquely  slamming  a  door,  glided  along 
through  the  darkened  town,  where  nothing  lighted 
the  fronts  of  the  houses,  save  the  hanging-lamps 
of  the  streets  and  the  pink  and  green  bottles  of 


Tarascon,  Five  Minutes'  Stop!       165 

the  pharmacy  Bezuquet,  which  projected  their 
reflections  on  the  pavement,  together  with  a  sil- 
houette of  the  apothecary  himself  resting  his 
elbows  on  his  desk  and  sound  asleep  on  the 
Codex ;  —  a  little  nap,  which  he  took  every  even- 
ing from  nine  to  ten,  to  make  himself,  so  he  said, 
the  fresher  at  night  for  those  who  might  need  his 
services.  That,  between  ourselves,  was  a  mere 
tarasconade,  for  no  one  ever  waked  him  at  night, 
in  fact  he  himself  had  cut  the  bell-wire,  in  order 
that  he  might  sleep  more  tranquilly. 

Suddenly  Tartarin  entered,  loaded  with  rugs, 
carpet-bag  in  hand,  and  so  pale,  so  discomposed, 
that  the  apothecary,  with  that  fiery  local  imagi- 
nation from  which  the  pharmacy  was  no  preserva- 
tive, jumped  to  the  conclusion  of  some  alarming 
misadventure  and  was  terrified.  "■  Unhappy  man  ! " 
he  cried,  "what  is  it?.,  you  are  poisoned?.. 
Quick  !  quick  !  some  ipeca.  .  .  " 

And  he  sprang  forward,  bustling  among  his 
bottles.  To  stop  him,  Tartarin  was  forced  to 
catch  him  round  the  waist.  "  Listen  to  me, 
qu^  diable!  "  and  his  voice  grated  with  the  vexation 
of  an  actor  whose  entrance  has  been  made  to 
miss  fire.  As  soon  as  the  apothecary  was  rendered 
motionless  behind  the  counter  by  an  iron  wrist, 
Tartarin  said  in  a  low  voice : — 

"  Are  we  alone,  Bezuquet  ?  " 

'^  B^ !  yes,"  ejaculated  the  other,  looking  about 
in  vague  alarm  ..."  Pascalon  has  gone  to  bed. " 
[  Pascalon  was  his  pupil.]  "  Mamma  too ;  why 
do  you  ask  ?  " 


1 66  Tartarm  on  the  Alps, 

"  Shut  the  shutters,"  commanded  Tartarin,  with- 
out replying;   "  we  might  be  seen  from  without." 

Bdzuquet  obeyed,  trembling.  An  old  bachelor, 
living  with  his  mother,  whom  he  never  quitted, 
he  had  all  the  gentleness  and  timidity  of  a  girl, 
contrasting  oddly  with  his  swarthy  skin,  his  hairy 
lips,  his  great  hooked  nose  above  a  spreading 
moustache;  in  short,  the  head  of  an  Algerine 
pirate  before  the  conquest.  These  antitheses  are 
frequent  in  Tarascon,  where  heads  have  too 
much  character,  Roman  or  Saracen,  heads  with 
the  expression  of  models  for  a  school  of  design,  but 
quite  out  of  place  in  bourgeois  trades  among  the 
manners  and  customs  of  a  little  town. 

For  instance,  Excourbanies,  who  has  all  the 
air  of  a  conquistador,  companion  of  Pizarro,  rolls 
flaming  eyes  in  selling  haberdashery  to  induce 
the  purchase  of  two  sous'  worth  of  thread.  And 
Bezuquet,  labelling  liquorice  and  siriipus  gtimmiy 
resembles  an  old  sea-rover  of  the  Barbary  coast. 

When  the  shutters  were  put  up  and  secured 
by  iron  bolts  and  transversal  bars,  "  Listen,  Fer- 
dinand ..."  said  Tartarin,  who  was  fond  of 
calling  people  by  their  Christian  names.  And 
thereupon  he  unbosomed  himself,  emptied  his 
heart  full  of  bitterness  at  the  ingratitude  of  his 
compatriots,  related  the  manoeuvres  of  "  Cock- 
leg,"  the  trick  about  to  be  played  upon  him  at 
the  coming  elections,  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
expected  to  parry  the  blow. 

Before  all  else,  the  matter  must  be  kept  very 
secret ;  it  must  not  be  revealed  until  the  moment 


Tarascon,  Five  Minutes'  Stop!       167 

when  success  was  assured,  unless  some  unforeseen 
accident,  one  of  those  frightful  catastrophes  — 
"  Hey,  B^zuquet !  don't  whistle  in  that  way  when 
I  talk  to  you." 

This  was  one  of  the  apothecary's  ridiculous 
habits.  Not  talkative  by  nature  (a  negative 
quality  seldom  met  with  in  Tarascon,  and  which 
won  him  this  confidence  of  the  president),  his 
thick  lips,  always  in  the  form  of  an  O,  had  a 
habit  of  perpetually  whistling  that  gave  him  an 
appearance  of  laughing  in  the  nose  of  the  world, 
even  on  the  gravest  occasions. 

So  that,  while  the  hero  made  allusion  to  his 
possible  death,  saying,  as  he  laid  upon  the  counter 
a  large  sealed  envelope,  **  This  is  my  last  will 
and  testament,  Bdzuquet;  it  is  you  whom  I  have 
chosen  as  testamentary  executor. .  ."  "  Hui  .  .  . 
hui  .  .  .  hui  ..."  whistled  the  apothecary,  carried 
away  by  his  mania,  while  at  heart  he  was  deeply 
moved  and  fully  conscious  of  the  grandeur  of 
his  role. 

Then,  the  hour  of  departure  being  at  hand,  he 
desired  to  drink  to  the  enterprise,  "  something  good, 
qu^f  a  glass  of  the  elixir  of  Garus,  hey?*'  After 
several  closets  had  been  opened  and  searched,  he  re- 
membered that  mamma  had  the  keys  of  the  Garus. 
To  get  them  it  would  be  necessary  to  awaken  her 
and  fell  who  was  there.  The  elixir  was  therefore 
changed  to  a  glass  of  the  sirop  de  CalabrCy  a 
summer  drink,  inoffensive  and  modest,  which  B^zu- 
quet  invented,  advertising  it  in  the  Forum  as  fol- 
lows :   Sirop  de  Calabre^  ten  sous  a  bottle ^  incltiding 


1 68  Tartari7t  on  the  Alps. 

the  glass  {verre).  ''  Sirop  de  Cadavre,  including 
the  worms  (^vers),"  said  that  infernal  Costecalde, 
who  spat  upon  all  success.  But,  after  all,  that 
horrid  play  upon  words  only  served  to  swell  the 
sale,  and  the  Tarasconese  to  this  day  delight  in 
their  sirop  de  cadavre. 

Libations  made  and  a  few  last  words  exchanged, 
they  embraced,  Bezuquet  whistling  as  usual  in 
his  moustache,  adown  which  rolled  great  tears. 

"Adieu,  all  mouain''  .  .  .  said  Tartarin  in  a 
rough  tone,  feeling  that  he  was  about  to  weep 
himself,  and  as  the  shutter  of  the  door  had  been 
lowered  the  hero  was  compelled  to  creep  out  of 
the  pharmacy  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

This  was  one  of  the  trials  of  the  journey  now 
about  to  begin. 

Three  days  later  he  landed  in  Vitznau  at  the 
foot  of  the  Rigi.  As  the  mountain  for  his  debut, 
the  Rigi  had  attracted  him  by  its  low  altitude 
(5900  feet,  about  ten  times  that  of  Mount  Terrible, 
the  highest  of  the  Alpines)  and  also  on  account  of 
the  splendid  panorama  to  be  seen  from  the  sum- 
mit—  the  Bernese  Alps  marshalled  in  line,  all 
white  and  rosy,  around  the  lakes,  awaiting  the  mo- 
ment when  the  great  ascensionist  should  cast  his 
ice-axe  upon  one  of  them. 

Certain  of  being  recognized  on  the  way  and 
perhaps  followed  —  't  was  a  foible  of  his  to  believe 
that  throughout  all  France  his  fame  was  as  great 
and  popular  as  it  was  at  Tarascon  —  he  had  made 
a  great  detour  before  entering  Switzerland  and 
did  not  don  his  accoutrements  until  after  he  had 


Tarascoii,  Five  Minutes   Stop  I       169 

crossed  the  frontier.  Luckily  for  him ;  for  never 
could  his  armament  have  been  contained  in  one 
French  railway-carriage. 

But,  however  convenient  the  Swiss  compart- 
ments might  be,  the  Alpinist,  hampered  with  uten- 
sils to  which  he  was  not,  as  yet,  accustomed,  crushed 
toe-nails  with  his  crampons,  harpooned  travellers 
who  came  in  his  way  with  the  point  of  his  alpen- 
stock, and  wherever  he  went,  in  the  stations,  the 
steamers,  and  the  hotel  salons,  he  excited  as  much 
amazement  as  he  did  maledictions,  avoidance,  and 
angry  looks,  which  he  could  not  explain  to  him- 
self though  his  affectionate  and  communicative 
nature  suffered  from  them.  To  complete  his  dis- 
comfort, the  sky  was  always  gray,  with  flocks  of 
clouds  and  a  driving  rain. 

It  rained  at  Bale,  on  the  little  white  houses, 
washed  and  rewashed  by  the  hands  of  a  maid  and 
the  waters  of  heaven.  It  rained  at  Lucerne,  on 
the  quay  where  the  trunks  and  boxes  appeared  to 
be  saved,  as  it  were,  from  shipwreck,  and  when  he 
arrived  at  the  station  of  Vitznau,  on  the  shore  of 
the  lake  of  the  Four-Cantons,  the  same  deluge  was 
descending  on  the  verdant  slopes  of  the  Rigi,  strad- 
dled by  inky  clouds  and  striped  with  torrents  that 
leaped  from  rock  to  rock  in  cascades  of  misty 
sleet,  bringing  down  as  they  came  the  loose  stones 
and  the  pine-needles.  Never  had  Tartarin  seen  so 
much  water. 

He  entered  an  inn  and  ordered  a  caf^  au  tail 
with  honey  and  butter,  the  only  really  good  things 
he  had  as  yet  tasted  during  his  journey.     Then, 


170  Tartarhi  on  the  Alps, 

reinvigorated,  and  his  beard  sticky  with  honey, 
cleaned  on  a  corner  of  his  napkin,  he  prepared  to 
attempt  his  first  ascension. 

"  Et  autremain,'  he  asked,  as  he  shifted  his 
knapsack,  "  how  long  does  it  take  to  ascend  the 
Rigi?" 

"  One  hour,  one  hour  and  a  quarter,  monsieur; 
but  make  haste  about  it ;   the  train  is  just  starting.'* 

"  A  train  upon  the  Rigi !  .  .  you  are  joking !  .  .  " 

Through  the  leaded  panes  of  the  tavern  window 
he  was  shown  the  train  that  was  really  starting. 
Two  great  covered  carriages,  windowless,  pushed 
by  a  locomotive  with  a  short,  corpulent  chimney, 
in  shape  like  a  saucepan,  a  monstrous  insect, 
clinging  to  the  mountain  and  clambering,  breath- 
less up  its  vertiginous  slopes. 

The  two  Tartarins,  cabbage  and  warren,  both, 
at  the  same  instant,  revolted  at  the  thought  of 
going  up  in  that  hideous  mechanism.  One  of 
them  thought  it  ridiculous  to  climb  the  Alps  in  a 
lift;  as  for  the  other,  those  aerial  bridges  on  which 
the  track  was  laid,  with  the  prospect  of  a  fall  of 
4000  feet  at  the  slightest  derailment,  inspired  him 
with  all  sorts  of  lamentable  reflections,  justified  by 
the  little  cemetery  of  Vitznau,  the  white  tombs  of 
which  lay  huddled  together  at  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
like  linen  spread  out  to  bleach  in  the  yard  of  a 
wash-house.  Evidently  the  cemetery  is  there  by 
way  of  precaution,  so  that,  in  case  of  accident, 
the  travellers    may  drop  on  the  very  spot. 

"  I '  11  go  afoot,  "  the  valiant  Tarasconese  said  to 
himself;   "  't  will  exercise  me  .  .  .  zou!  " 


Tarascon^  Five  Mmutes    Stop!       171 

And  he  started,  wholly  preoccupied  with  man- 
CEuvring  his  alpenstock  in  presence  of  the  staff  of 
the  hotel,  collected  about  the  door  and  shouting 
directions  to  him  about  the  path,  to  which  he  did 
not  listen.  He  first  followed  an  ascending  road, 
paved  with  large  irregular,  pointed  stones  like  a 
lane  at  the  South,  and  bordered  with  wooden  gut- 
ters to  carry  off  the  rains. 

To  right  and  left  were  great  orchards,  fields  of 
rank,  lush  grass  crossed  by  the  same  wooden  con- 
duits for  irrigation  through  hollowed  trunks  of 
trees.  All  this  made  a  constant  rippling  from  top 
to  bottom  of  the  mountain,  and  every  time  that 
the  ice-axe  of  the  Alpinist  became  hooked  as  he 
walked  along  in  the  lower  branches  of  an  oak  or  a 
walnut-tree,  his  cap  crackled  as  if  beneath  the 
nozzle  of  a  watering-pot. 

"  Diou  !  what  a  lot  of  water !  "  sighed  the  man 
of  the  South.  But  it  was  much  worse  when  the 
pebbly  path  abruptly  ceased  and  he  was  forced 
to  puddle  along  in  the  torrent  or  jump  from  rock 
to  rock  to  save  his  gaiters.  Then  a  shower 
joined  in,  penetrating,  steady,  and  seeming  to  get 
colder  the  higher  he  went.  When  he  stopped  to 
recover  breath  he  could  hear  nothing  else  than 
a  vast  noise  of  waters  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
sunk,  and  he  saw,  as  he  turned  round,  the  clouds 
descending  into  the  lake  in  delicate  long  filaments 
of  spun  glass  through  which  the  chalets  of  Vitznau 
shone  like  freshly  varnished  toys. 

Men  and  children  passed  him  with  lowered  heads 
and  backs  bent  beneath  hods  of  white-wood,  con- 


172  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

taining  provisions  for  some  villa  or  pension^  the 
balconies  of  which  could  be  distinguished  on  the 
slopes.  "  Rigi-Kulm?"  asked  Tartarin,  to  be  sure 
he  was  heading  in  the  right  direction.  But  his 
extraordinary  equipment,  especially  that  knitted 
muffler  which  masked  his  face,  cast  terror  along 
the  way,  and  all  whom  he  addre^ssed  only  opened 
their  eyes  wide  and  hastened  their  steps  without 
replying. 

Soon  these  encounters  became  rare.  The  last 
human  being  whom  he  saw  was  an  old  woman 
washing  her  linen  in  the  hollowed  trunk  of  a  tree 
under  the  shelter  of  an  enormous  red  umbrella, 
planted  in  the  ground. 

''Rigi-Kulm?"  asked  the  Alpinist. 

The  old  woman  raised  an  idiotic,  cadaverous 
face,  with  a  goitre  swaying  upon  her  throat  as 
large  as  the  rustic  bell  of  a  Swiss  cow.  Then, 
after  gazing  at  him  for  a  long  time,  she  was  seized 
with  inextinguishable  laughter,  which  stretched  her 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  wrinkled  up  the  corners  of 
her  little  eyes,  and  every  time  she  opened  them  the 
sight  of  Tartarin,  planted  before  her  with  his  ice- 
axe  on  his  shoulder,  redoubled  her  joy. 

**  Tj'on  de  Vair!''  growled  the  Tarasconese, 
"  lucky  for  her  that  she  's  a  woman.  .  .  "  Snorting 
with  anger,  he  continued  his  way  and  lost  it  in  a 
pine-wood,  where  his  boots  slipped  on  the  oozing 
moss. 

Beyond  this  point  the  landscape  changed.  No 
more  paths,  or  trees,  or  pastures.  Gloomy,  de- 
nuded slopes,  great  boulders  of  rock  which  he  scaled 


Tarascon,  Five  Minutes    Stop!       173 

on  his  knees  for  fear  of  falling;  sloughs  full  of 
yellow  mud,  which  he  crossed  slowly,  feeling  before 
him  with  his  alpenstock  and  lifting  his  feet  like  a 
knife-grinder.  At  every  moment  he  looked  at  the 
compass  hanging  to  his  broad  watch-ribbon;  but 
whether  it  were  the  altitude  or  the  variations  of  the 
temperature,  the  needle  seemed  untrue.  And  how 
could  he  find  his  bearings  in  a  thick  yellow  fog  that 
hindered  him  from  seeing  ten  steps  about  him  — 
steps  that  were  now,  within  a  moment,  covered  with 
an  icy  glaze  that  made  the  ascent  more  difficult. 

Suddenly  he  stopped;  the  ground  whitened 
vaguely  before  him.  .  .  Look  out  for  your  eyes !  .  . 

He  had  come  to  the  region  of  snows.  .  . 

Immediately  he  pulled  out  his  spectacles,  took 
them  from  their  case,  and  settled  them  securely  on 
his  nose.  The  moment  was  a  solemn  one.  Slightly 
agitated,  yet  proud  all  the  same,  it  seemed  to  Tar- 
tarin  that  in  one  bound  he  had  risen  3000  feet 
toward  the  summits  and  his  greatest  dangers. 

He  now  advanced  with  more  precaution,  dream- 
ing of  crevasses  and  fissures  such  as  the  books  tell 
of,  and  cursing  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  those 
people  at  the  inn  who  advised  him  to  mount  straight 
and  take  no  guide.  After  all,  perhaps  he  had 
mistaken  the  mountain  !  More  than  six  hours  had 
he  tramped,  and  the  Rigi  required  only  three.  The 
wind  blew,  a  chilling  wind  that  whirled  the  snow  in 
that  crepuscular  fog. 

Night  was  about  to  overtake  him.  Where  find  a 
hut?  or  even  a  projecting  rock  to  shelter  him?  All 
of  a  sudden,  he  saw  before  his  nose  on  the  arid, 


174  Tartarin  07t  the  Alps, 

naked  plain  a  species  of  wooden  chalet,  bearing, 
on  a  long  placard  in  gigantic  type,  these  letters, 
which  he  deciphered  with  difficulty:  PHO.  .  . 
TO  .  .  .  GRA  .  .  .  PHIE  DU  RI  . .  .  GI  KULM. 
At  the  same  instant  the  vast  hotel  with  its  three 
hundred  windows  loomed  up  before  him  between 
the  great  lamp-posts,  the  globes  of  which  were 
now  being  lighted  in  the  fog. 


Aji  Alarm  on  the  RigL  175 


III. 

An  alarm  on  the  Rigi.  '•^  Keep  cool !  Keep  cool/"  The 
Alpine  horn.  What  Tartarin  saw^  on  awaking,  in  his  look- 
ing-glass.  Perplexity.   A  guide  is  ordered  by  telephone. 

"  QuES  aco?  .  .  Qui  vive?  "  cried  Tartarin,  ears 
alert  and  eyes  straining  hard  into  the  darkness. 

Feet  were  running  through  the  hotel,  doors  were 
slamming,  breathless  voices  were  crying:  "Make 
haste  !  make  haste  !  .  .  "  while  without  was  ringing 
what  seemed  to  be  a  trumpet-call,  as  flashes  of  flame 
illumined  both  panes  and  curtains. 

Fire !  .  . 

At  a  bound  he  was  out  of  bed,  shod,  clothed,  and 
running  headlong  down  the  staircase,  where  the  gas 
still  burned  and  a  rustling  swarm  of  misses  were 
descending,  with  hair  put  up  in  haste,  and  they 
themselves  swathed  in  shawls  and  red  woollen 
jackets,  or  anything  else  that  came  to  hand  as  they 
jumped  out  of  bed. 

Tartarin,  to  fortify  himself  and  also  to  reassure 
the  young  ladies,  cried  out,  as  he  rushed  on,  hust- 
ling everybody :  "  Keep  cool !  Keep  cool !"  in  the 
voice  of  a  gull,  pallid,  distraught,  one  of  those  voices 
that  we  hear  in  dreams  sending  chills  down  the  back 
of  the  bravest  man.  Now,  can  you  understand 
those  young  misses^  who  laughed  as  they  looked  at 


176  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

him  and  seemed  to  think  it  very  funny?  Girls 
have  no  notion  of  danger,  at  that  age  !  .  . 

Happily,  the  old  diplomatist  came  along  behind 
them,  very  cursorily  clothed  in  a  top-coat  below 
which  appeared  his  white  drawers  with  trailing  ends 
of  tape-string. 

Here  was  a  man,  at  last !  .  . 

Tartarin  ran  to  him  waving  his  arms:  "Ah! 
Monsieur  le  baron,  what  a  disaster !  .  .  Do  you 
know  about  it?  .  .  Where  is  it?..  How  did  it 
take?  .  ." 

"Who?  What?"  stuttered  the  terrified  baron, 
not  understanding. 

"  Why,  the  fire.  .  .  " 

"What  fire?  .  .  " 

The  poor  man's  countenance  was  so  inexpress- 
ibly vacant  and  stupid  that  Tartarin  abandoned 
him  and  rushed  away  abruptly  to  "  organize 
help.  .  .  " 

"  Help  !  "  repeated  the  baron,  and  after  him  four 
or  five  waiters,  sound  asleep  on  their  feet  in  the 
antechamber,  looked  at  one  another  completely 
bewildered  and  echoed,  '*  Help  !  . .  " 

At  the  first  step  that  Tartarin  made  out-of-doors 
he  saw  his  error.  Not  the  slightest  conflagration  ! 
Only  savage  cold,  and  pitchy  darkness,  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  resinous  torches  that  were  being 
carried  hither  and  thither,  casting  on  the  snow 
long,  blood-coloured  traces. 

On  the  steps  of  the  portico,  a  performer  on  the 
Alpine  horn  was  bellowing  his  modulated  moan, 
that  monotonous  ranz  des  vaches  on  three  notes, 


An  Alarm  07t  the  Rigi,  177 

with  which  the  Rigi-Kulm  is  wont  to  waken  the 
worshippers  of  the  sun  and  announce  to  them  the 
rising  of  their  star. 

It  is  said  that  it  shows  itself,  sometimes,  on  rising, 
at  the  extreme  top  of  the  mountain  behind  the  hotel. 
To  get  his  bearings,  Tartarin  had  only  to  follow  the 
long  peal  of  the  misses'  laughter  which  now  went 
past  him.  But  he  walked  more  slowly,  still  full  of 
sleep  and  his  legs  heavy  with  his  six  hours'  climb. 

"  Is  that  you,  Manilof?  .  ."  said  a  clear  voice 
from  the  darkness,  the  voice  of  a  woman.  "  Help 
me.  .  .     I  have  lost  my  shoe." 

He  recognized  at  once  the  foreign  warble  of  his 
pretty  little  neighbour  at  the  dinner-table,  whose 
delicate  silhouette  he  now  saw  in  the  first  pale 
gleam  of  the  coming  sun. 

"  It  is  not  Manilof,  mademoiselle,  but  if  I  can  be 
useful  to  you.  .  ." 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise  and  alarm  as  she 
made  a  recoiling  gesture  that  Tartarin  did  not  per- 
ceive, having  already  stooped  to  feel  about  the 
short  and  crackling  grass  around  them. 

"  TV,  pardi  !  here  it  is  !  "  he  cried  joyfully.  He 
shook  the  dainty  shoe  which  the  snow  had  pow- 
dered, and  putting  a  knee  to  earth,  most  gallantly 
in  the  snow  and  the  dampness,  he  asked,  for  all 
reward,  the  honour  of  replacing  it  on  Cinderella's 
foot. 

She,  more  repellent  than  in  the  tale,  replied  with 
a  very  curt  "  no  ;  "  and  endeavoured,  by  hopping  on 
one  foot,  to  reinstate  her  silk  stocking  in  its  little 
bronze  shoe  ;  but  in  that  she  could  never  have  suc- 

12 


178  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

ceeded  without  the  help  of  the  hero,  who  was 
greatly  moved  by  feeling  for  an  instant  that  deli- 
cate hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

'*You  have  good  eyes,"  she  said,  by  way  of 
thanks  as  they  now  walked  side  by  side,  and  feel- 
ing their  way. 

"  The  habit  of  watching  for  game,  mademoiselle." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  a  sportsman?  " 

She  said  it  with  an  incredulous,  satirical  accent. 
Tartarin  had  only  to  name  himself  in  order  to 
convince  her,  but,  like  the  bearers  of  all  illustri- 
ous names,  he  preferred  discretion,  coquetry.  So, 
wishing  to  graduate  the  surprise,  he  answered :  — 

"  I  am  a  sportsman,  effectivemain'' 

She  continued  in  the  same  tone  of  irony:  — 

**  And  what  game  do  you  prefer  to  hunt?  " 

"  The  great  carnivora,  wild  beasts  .  .  ."  uttered 
Tartarin,  thinking  to  dazzle  her. 

"Do  you  find  many  on  the  Rigi?" 

Always  gallant,  and  ready  in  reply,  Tartarin  was 
about  to  say  that  on  the  Rigi  he  had  so  far  met 
none  but  gazelles,  when  his  answer  was  suddenly 
cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  two  shadows,  who 
called  out:  — 

"  Sonia  !  .  .     Sonia  !  .  ." 

"  I  'm  coming,"  she  said,  and  turning  to  Tartarin, 
whose  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  could 
distinguish  her  pale  and  pretty  face  beneath  her 
mantle,  she  added,  this  time  seriously :  — 

"  You  have  undertaken  a  dangerous  enterprise, 
my  good  man  .  .  .  take  care  you  do  not  leave  your 
bones  here." 


An  Alarm  on  the  RigL  179 

So  saying,  she  instantly  disappeared  in  the  dark- 
ness with  her  companions. 

Later,  the  threatening  intonation  that  empha- 
sized those  words  was  fated  to  trouble  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  Southerner;  but  now,  he  was  simply 
vexed  at  the  term  "  good  man,"  cast  upon  his 
elderly  embonpoint,  and  also  at  the  abrupt  depart- 
ure of  the  young  girl  just  at  the  moment  when  he 
was  about  to  name  himself,  and  enjoy  her  stupe- 
faction. 

He  made  a  few  steps  in  the  direction  the  group 
had  taken,  hearing  a  confused  murmur,  with 
coughs  and  sneezes,  of  the  clustering  tourists  wait- 
ing impatiently  for  the  rising  of  the  sun,  the  most 
vigorous  among  them  having  climbed  to  a  little 
belvedere,  the  steps  of  which,  wadded  with  snow, 
could  be  whitely  distinguished  in  the  vanishing 
darkness. 

A  gleam  was  beginning  to  light  the  Orient,  sa- 
luted by  a  fresh  blast  from  the  Alpine  horn,  and 
that  **Ah!!"  of  relief,  always  heard  in  theatres 
when  the  third  bell  raises  the  curtain. 

Slight  as  a  ray  through  a  shutter,  this  gleam, 
nevertheless,  enlarged  the  horizon,  but,  at  the  same 
moment  a  fog,  opaque  and  yellow,  rose  from  the 
valley,  a  steam  that  grew  more  thick,  more  pene- 
trating as  the  day  advanced.  'T  was  a  veil  between 
the  scene  and  the  spectators. 

All  hope  was  now  renounced  of  the  gigantic 
effects  predicted  in  the  guide-books.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  heteroclite  array  of  the  dancers  of  the 
night  before,  torn  from  their  slumbers,  appeared 


i8o  Tartarhi  on  the  Alps, 

in  fantastic  and  ridiculous  outline  like  the  shades 
of  a  magic  lantern;  shawls,  rugs,  and  even  bed- 
quilts  wrapped  around  them.  Under  varied  head- 
gear, nightcaps  of  silk  or  cotton,  broad-brimmed 
female  hats,  turbans,  fur  caps  with  ear-pads,  were 
haggard  faces,  swollen  faces,  heads  of  shipwrecked 
beings  cast  upon  a  desert  island  in  mid-ocean, 
watching  for  a  sail  in  the  offing  with  staring  eyes. 

But  nothing  —  everlastingly  nothing! 

Nevertheless,  certain  among  them  strove,  in  a 
gush  of  good-will,  to  distinguish  the  surrounding 
summits,  and,  on  the  top  of  the  belvedere  could 
be  heard  the  clucking  of  the  Peruvian  family, 
pressing  around  a  big  devil,  wrapped  to  his  feet  in 
a  checked  ulster,  who  was  pointing  out  imperturb- 
ably,  the  invisible  panorama  of  the  Bernese  Alps, 
naming  in  a  loud  voice  the  peaks  that  were  lost  in 
the  fog. 

"  You  see  on  the  left  the  Finsteraarhorn,  thirteen 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-five  feet  high 
.  .  .  the  Schreckhorn,  the  Wetterhorn,  the  Monk, 
the  Jungfrau,  the  elegant  proportions  of  which  I 
especially  point  out  to  these  young  ladies.  .  ." 

"  B^ !  ve  !  there 's  one  who  does  n't  lack  cheek  !  " 
thought  Tartarin;  then,  on  reflection,  he  added: 
"  I  know  that  voice,  au  mouain!^ 

He  recognized  the  accent,  that  accent  of  the 
South,  distinguishable  from  afar  like  garlic;  but, 
quite  preoccupied  in  finding  again  his  fair  Un- 
known, he  did  not  pause,  and  continued  to  inspect 
the  groups  —  without  result.  She  must  have  re- 
entered the  hotel,  as  they  all  did  now,  weary  with 


An  Alarm  on  the  Rigu  i8i 

standing  about,  shivering,  to  no  purpose,  so  that 
presently  no  one  remained  on  the  cold  and  deso- 
late plateau  of  that  gray  dawn  but  Tartarin  and  the 
Alpine  horn-player,  who  continued  to  blow  a  mel- 
ancholy note  through  his  huge  instrument,  like  a 
dog  baying  the  moon. 

He  was  a  short  old  man,  with  a  long  beard, 
wearing  a  Tyrolese  hat  adorned  with  green  woollen 
tassels  that  hung  down  upon  his  back  and,  in  let- 
ters of  gold,  the  words  (common  to  all  the  hats 
and  caps  in  the  service  of  the  hotel)  Regina  Mon- 
tium.  Tartarin  went  up  to  give  him  a  pourboire, 
as  he  had  seen  all  the  other  tourists  do.  "  Let  us 
go  to  bed  again,  my  old  friend,"  he  said,  tapping 
him  on  the  shoulder  with  Tarasconese  familiarity. 
**  A  fine  humbug,  qn^ !  the  sunrise  on  the  Rigi." 

The  old  man  continued  to  blow  into  his  horn, 
concluding  his  ritornelle  in  three  notes  with  a  mute 
laugh  that  wrinkled  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and 
shook  the  green  glands  of  his  head-gear. 

Tartarin,  in  spite  of  all,  did  not  regret  his  night. 
That  meeting  with  the  pretty  blonde  repaid  him 
for  his  loss  of  sleep,  for,  though  nigh  upon  fifty, 
he  still  had  a  warm  heart,  a  romantic  imagination, 
a  glowing  hearthstone  of  life.  Returning  to  bed, 
and  shutting  his  eyes  to  make  himself  go  to  sleep, 
he  fancied  he  felt  in  his  hand  that  dainty  little 
shoe,  and  heard  again  the  gentle  call  of  the  fair 
young  girl :   **  Is  it  you,  Manilof  ?  " 

Sonia  .  .  .  what  a  pretty  name  !  .  .  She  was  cer- 
tainly Russian ;  and  those  young  men  were  trav- 
eUing  with  her ;  friends  of  her  brother,  no  doubt. 


1 82  Tartarhi  on  the  Alps, 

Then  all  grew  hazy;  the  pretty  face  in  its  golden 
curls  joined  the  other  floating  visions,  —  Rigi 
slopes,  cascades  like  plumes  of  feathers,  —  and 
soon  the  heroic  breathing  of  the  great  man,  sono- 
rous and  rhythmical,  filled  the  little  room  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  long  corridor.  .  . 

The  next  morning,  before  descending  at  the  first 
gong  for  breakfast,  Tartarin  was  about  to  make 
sure  that  his  beard  was  well  brushed,  and  that  he 
himself  did  not  look  too  badly  in  his  Alpine  cos- 
tume, when,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  quivered.  Before 
him,  open,  and  gummed  to  his  looking-glass  by 
two  wafers,  was  an  anonymous  letter,  containing 
the  following  threats :  — 

*'  Devil  of  a  Frenchman^  your  queer  old  clothes  do 
not  conceal  you.  You  are  forgiven  once  more  for 
this  attempt ;  but  if  you  cross  our  path  again^ 
beware  I " 

Bewildered,  he  read  this  two  or  three  times  over 
without  understanding  it.  Of  whom,  of  what  must 
he  beware?  How  came  that  letter  there?  Evi- 
dently during  his  sleep ;  for  he  did  not  see  it  on 
returning  from  his  auroral  promenade.  He  rang 
for  the  maid  on  duty ;  a  fat,  white  face,  all  pitted 
with  the  small-pox,  a  perfect  gruyere  cheese,  from 
which  nothing  intelligible  could  be  drawn,  except 
that  she  was  of  ''  bon  famille,"  and  never  entered 
the  rooms  of  the  gentlemen  unless  they  were 
there. 

"  A  queer  thing,  au  mouain!'  thought  Tartarin, 
turning   and  returning  the  letter,  and   much  im- 


A 71  Alarm  on  the  Rigi.  183 

pressed  by  it.  For  a  moment  the  name  of  Coste- 
calde  crossed  his  mind,  —  Costecalde,  informed  of 
his  projects  of  ascension,  and  endeavouring  to  pre- 
vent them  by  manoeuvres  and  threats.  On  reflec- 
tion, this  appeared  to  him  unlikely,  and  he  ended 
by  persuading  himself  that  the  letter  was  a  joke 
.  .  .  perhaps  those  little  misses  who  had  laughed 
at  him  so  heartily  .  .  .  they  are  so  free,  those 
English  and  American  young  girls ! 

The  second  breakfast  gong  sounded.  He  put 
the  letter  in  his  pocket :  "  After  all,  we  '11  soon 
see  .  .  ."  and  the  formidable  grimace  with  which 
he  accompanied  that  reflection  showed  the  heroism 
of  his  soul. 

Fresh  surprise  when  he  sat  down  to  table.  In- 
stead of  his  pretty  neighbour,  **  whom  Love  had 
curled  with  gold,"  he  perceived  the  vulture  throat 
of  an  old  Englishwoman,  whose  long  lappets  swept 
the  cloth.  It  was  rumoured  about  him  that  the 
young  lady  and  her  companions  had  left  the  hotel 
by  one  of  the  early  morning  trains. 

"  *Cr^  nom!  I  'm  fooled  .  .  ."  exclaimed  aloud 
the  Italian  tenor,  who,  the  evening  before,  had  so 
rudely  signified  to  Tartarin  that  he  could  not  speak 
French.  He  must  have  learned  it  in  a  single 
night !  The  tenor  rose,  threw  down  his  napkin, 
and  hurried  away,  leaving  the  Southerner  com- 
pletely nonplussed. 

Of  all  the  guests  of  the  night  before,  none 
now  remained  but  himself.  That  is  always  so 
on  the  Rigi-Kulm ;  no  one  stays  there  more  than 
tv/enty-four   hours.     In  other   respects  the  scene 


184  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

was  invariably  the  same;  the  compote-dishes  in 
files  divided  the  factions.  But  on  this  particular 
morning  the  Rices  triumphed  by  a  great  majority, 
reinforced  by  certain  illustrious  personages,  and 
the  Prunes  did  not,  as  they  say,  have  it  all  their 
own  way. 

Tartarin,  without  taking  sides  with  one  or  the 
other,  went  up  to  his  room  before  the  dessert, 
buckled  his  bag,  and  asked  for  his  bill.  He  had 
had  enough  of  Regina  Montium  and  its  dreary 
table  d'hote  of  deaf  mutes. 

Abruptly  recalled  to  his  Alpine  madness  by  the 
touch  of  his  ice-axe,  his  crampons,  and  the  rope 
in  which  he  rewound  himself,  he  burned  to  attack 
a  real  mountain,  a  summit  deprived  of  a  lift  and  a 
photographer.  He  hesitated  between  the  Finster- 
aarhorn,  as  being  the  highest,  and  the  Jungfrau, 
whose  pretty  name  of  virginal  whiteness  made  him 
think  more  than  once  of  the  little  Russian. 

Ruminating  on  these  alternatives  while  they 
made  out  his  bill,  he  amused  himself  in  the  vast, 
lugubrious,  silent  hall  of  the  hotel  by  looking  at 
the  coloured  photographs  hanging  to  the  walls, 
representing  glaciers,  snowy  slopes,  famous  and 
perilous  mountain  passes  :  here,  were  ascensionists 
in  file,  like  ants  on  a  quest,  creeping  along  an  icy 
arete  sharply  defined  and  blue ;  farther  on  was  a 
deep  crevasse,  with  glaucous  sides,  over  which  was 
thrown  a  ladder,  and  a  lady  crossing  it  on  her 
knees,  with  an  abb6  after  her  raising  his  cassock. 

The  Alpinist  of  Tarascon,  both  hands  on  his 
ice-axe,  had  never,   as  yet,  had  an  idea  of  such 


An  Alarm  07i  the  Rigt.  185 

difficulties;  he  would  have  to  meet  them,  pas 
mouain  I .  . 

Suddenly  he  paled  fearfully. 

In  a  black  frame,  an  engraving  from  the  famous 
drawing  of  Gustave  Dore,  reproducing  the  catas- 
trophe on  the  Matterhorn,  met  his  eye.  Four 
human  bodies  on  the  flat  of  their  backs  or  stom- 
achs were  coming  headlong  down  the  almost  per- 
pendicular slope  of  a  n^v^y  with  extended  arms  and 
clutching  hands,  seeking  the  broken  rope  which 
held  this  string  of  lives,  and  only  served  to  drag 
them  down  to  death  in  the  gulf  where  the  mass 
was  to  fall  pell-mell,  with  ropes,  axes,  veils,  and  all 
the  gay  outfit  of  Alpine  ascension,  grown  suddenly 
tragic. 

"  Awful ! "  cried  Tartarin,  speaking  aloud  in  his 
horror. 

A  very  civil  mattre  d'hotel  heard  the  exclama- 
tion, and  thought  best  to  reassure  him.  Accidents 
of  that  nature,  he  said,  were  becoming  very  rare: 
the  essential  thing  was  to  commit  no  imprudence 
and,  above  all,  to  procure  good  guides. 

Tartarin  asked  if  he  could  be  told  of  one  there, 
"  with  confidence.  .  ."  Not  that  he  himself  had  any 
fear,  but  it  was  always  best  to  have  a  sure  man. 

The  waiter  reflected,  with  an  important  air, 
twirling  his  moustache.  "With  confidence?.. 
Ah!  if  monsieur  had  only  spoken  sooner;  we 
had  a  man  here  this  morning  who  was  just  the 
thing  .  .  .  the  courier  of  that  Peruvian  family.  .  ." 

"  He  understands  the  mountain?  "  said  Tartarin, 
with  a  knowing  air. 


1 86  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur,  all  the  mountains,  in 
Switzerland,  Savoie,  Tyrol,  India,  in  fact,  the  whole 
world ;  he  has  done  them  all,  he  knows  them  all, 
he  can  tell  you  all  about  them,  and  that 's  some- 
thing !  .  .  I  think  he  might  easily  be  induced.  .  . 
With  a  man  like  that  a  child  could  go  anywhere 
without  danger." 

"  Where  is  he  ?     How  could  I  find  him?  " 

"At  the  Kaltbad,  monsieur,  preparing  the 
rooms  for  his  party.  .  .  I  could  telephone  to  him." 

A  telephone  !  on  the  Rigi ! 

That  was  the  climax.  But  Tartarin  could  no 
longer  be  amazed. 

Five  minutes  later  the  man  returned  bringing  an 
answer. 

The  courier  of  the  Peruvian  party  had  just 
started  for  the  Tellsplatte,  where  he  would  certainly 
pass  the  night. 

The  Tellsplatte  is  a  memorial  chapel,  to  which 
pilgrimages  are  made  in  honour  of  WiUiam  Tell. 
Some  persons  go  there  to  see  the  mural  pictures 
which  a  famous  painter  of  Bale  has  lately  executed 
in  the  chapel.  .  . 

As  it  only  took  by  boat  an  hour  or  an  hour  and 
a  half  to  reach  the  place,  Tartarin  did  not  hesitate. 
It  would  make  him  lose  a  day,  but  he  owed  it  to 
himself  to  render  that  homage  to  William  Tell,  for 
whom  he  had  always  felt  a  peculiar  predilection. 
And,  besides,  what  a  chance  if  he  could  there  pick 
up  this  marvellous  guide  and  induce  him  to  do  the 
Jungfrau  with  him. 

Forward,  zoii  ! 


An  Alarm  on  the  RigL  187 

He  paid  his  bill,  in  which  the  setting  and  the  ris- 
ing sun  were  reckoned  as  extras,  also  the  candles 
and  the  attendance.  Then,  still  preceded  by  the 
rattle  of  his  metals,  which  sowed  surprise  and 
terror  on  his  way,  he  went  to  the  railway  station, 
because  to  descend  the  Rigi  as  he  had  ascended 
it,  on  foot,  would  have  been  lost  time,  and,  really, 
it  was  doing  too  much  honour  to  that  very  arti- 
ficial mountain. 


1 88  Tartariji  on  the  Alps, 


IV. 


On  the  boat.  It  rains.  The  Tarasconese  hero  salutes  the 
Ashes.  The  truth  about  William  Tell.  Disillusion.  Tar- 
tarin  of  Tarascon  never  existed.     "  Te  !  Bompard.^'' 

He  had  left  the  snows  of  the  Rigi-Kulm ;  down 
below,  on  the  lake,  he  returned  to  rain,  fine,  close, 
misty,  a  vapour  of  water  through  which  the  moun- 
tains stumped  themselves  in,  graduating  in  the  dis- 
tance to  the  form  of  clouds. 

The  "  Fohn  "  whistled,  raising  white  caps  on  the 
lake  where  the  gulls,  flying  low,  seemed  borne 
upon  the  waves ;  one  might  have  thought  one's  self 
on  the  open  ocean. 

Tartarin  recalled  to  mind  his  departure  from  the 
port  of  Marseilles,  fifteen  years  earlier,  when  he 
started  to  hunt  the  lion  —  that  spotless  sky,  daz- 
zling with  silvery  light,  that  sea  so  blue,  blue 
as  the  water  of  dye-works,  blown  back  by  the 
mistral  in  sparkling  white  saline  crystals,  the 
bugles  of  the  forts  and  the  bells  of  all  the  steeples 
echoing  joy,  rapture,  sun  —  the  fairy  world  of  a 
first  journey. 

What  a  contrast  to  this  black  dripping  wharf, 
almost  deserted,  on  which  were  seen,  through  the 
mist  as  through  a  sheet  of  oiled  paper,  a  few  pas- 
sengers wrapped    in   ulsters    and   formless   India- 


On  the  Boat.  189 

rubber  garments,  and  the  helmsman  standing 
motionless,  muffled  in  his  hooded  cloak,  his  man- 
ner grave  and  sibylline,  behind  this  notice  printed 
in  three  languages  :  — 

"  Forbidden  to  speak  to  the  man  at  the  wheel." 

Very  useless  caution,  for  nobody  spoke  on  board 
the  "  Winkelried,"  neither  on  deck,  nor  in  the 
first  and  second  saloons  crowded  with  lugubrious- 
looking  passengers,  sleeping,  reading,  yawning, 
pell-mell,  with  their  smaller  packages  scattered  on 
the  seats  —  the  sort  of  scene  we  imagine  that  a 
batch  of  exiles  on  the  morning  after  a  coup-d'Etat 
might  present. 

From  time  to  time  the  hoarse  bellow  of  the 
steam-pipe  announced  the  arrival  of  the  boat  at  a 
stopping-place.  A  noise  of  steps,  and  of  baggage 
dragged  about  the  deck.  The  shore,  looming 
through  the  fog,  came  nearer  and  showed  its  slopes 
of  a  sombre  green,  its  villas  shivering  amid  inun- 
dated groves,  files  of  poplars  flanking  the  muddy 
roads  along  which  sumptuous  hotels  were  formed 
in  line  with  their  names  in  letters  of  gold  upon 
their  facades.  Hotel  Meyer,  Miiller,  du  Lac,  etc., 
where  heads,  bored  with  existence,  made  them- 
selves visible  behind  the  streaming  window-panes. 

The  wharf  was  reached,  the  passengers  disem- 
barked and  went  upward,  all  equally  muddy, 
soaked,  and  silent.  'Twas  a  coming  and  going 
of  umbrellas  and  omnibuses,  quickly  vanishing. 
Then  a  great  beating  of  the  wheels,  churning  up  the 
water  with  their  paddles,  and  the  shore  retreated, 
becoming  once  more  a  misty  landscape  with  its 


190  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

pe7isions  Meyer,  Miiller,  du  Lac,  etc.,  the  windows 
of  which,  opened  for  an  instant,  gave  fluttering 
handkerchiefs  to  view  from  every  floor,  and  out- 
stretched arms  that  seemed  to  say :  "  Mercy ! 
pity !  take  us,  take  us  ...  if  you  only  knew !  .  .  " 

At  times  the  "  Winkelried  "  crossed  on  its  way 
some  other  steamer  with  its  name  in  black  letters 
on  its  white  paddle-box :  *'  Germania."  .  .  '*  Guil- 
laume  Tell ".  .  .  The  same  lugubrious  deck,  the 
same  refracting  caoutchoucs,  the  same  most  la- 
mentable pleasure  trip  as  that  of  the  other  phan- 
tom vessel  going  its  different  way,  and  the  same 
heart-broken  glances  exchanged  from  deck  to 
deck. 

And  to  say  that  those  people  travelled  for 
enjoyment !  and  that  all  those  boarders  in  the 
Hotels  du  Lac,  Meyer,  and  Miiller  were  captives 
for  pleasure ! 

Here,  as  on  the  Rigi-Kulm,  the  thing  that  above 
all  sufl"ocated  Tartarin,  agonized  him,  froze  him, 
even  more  than  the  cold  rain  and  the  murky  sky, 
was  the  utter  impossibility  of  talking.  True,  he 
had  again  met  faces  that  he  knew  —  the  member  of 
the  Jockey  Club  with  his  niece  (h'm !  h'm !  .  .), 
the  academician  Astier-Rehu,  and  the  Bonn  Pro- 
fessor Schwanthaler,  those  two  implacable  enemies 
condemned  to  live  side  by  side  for  a  month  man- 
acled to  the  itinerary  of  a  Cook's  Circular,  and 
others.  But  none  of  these  illustrious  Prunes  would 
recognize  the  Tarasconese  Alpinist,  although  his 
mountain  muffler,  his  metal  utensils,  his  ropes  in 
saltire,  distinguished  him  from  others,  and  marked 


On  tJic  Boat,  191 

him  ill  a  manner  that  was  quite  pecuHar.  They 
all  seemed  ashamed  of  the  night  before,  and  the 
inexplicable  impulse  communicated  to  them  by 
the  fiery  ardour  of  that  fat  man. 

Mme.  Schwanthaler,  alone,  approached  her  part- 
ner, with  the  rosy,  laughing  face  of  a  plump  little 
fairy,  and  taking  her  skirt  in  her  two  fingers  as  if 
to  suggest  a  minuet.  "  Ballir.  .  .  dantsir.  .  .  very 
choli.  .  ."  remarked  the  good  lady.  Was  this  a 
memory  that  she  evoked,  or  a  temptation  that  she 
offered?  At  any  rate,  as  she  did  not  let  go  of  him, 
Tartarin,  to  escape  her  pertinacity,  went  up  on 
deck,  preferring  to  be  soaked  to  the  skin  rather 
than  be  made  ridiculous. 

And  it  rained  !  .  .  and  the  sky  was  dirty !  .  .  To 
complete  his  gloom,  a  whole  squad  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  who  had  come  aboard  at  Beckenried, 
a  dozen  stout  girls  with  stolid  faces,  in  navy-blue 
gowns  and  Greenaway  bonnets,  were  grouped 
under  three  enormous  scarlet  umbrellas,  and  were 
singing  verses,  accompanied  on  the  accordion  by 
a  man,  a  sort  of  David-la-Gamme,  tall  and  fleshless 
with  crazy  eyes.  These  sharp,  flat,  discordant 
voices,  like  the  cry  of  gulls,  rolled  dragging, 
drawling  through  the  rain  and  the  black  smoke  of 
the  engine  which  the  wind  beat  down  upon  the 
deck.  Never  had  Tartarin  heard  anything  so 
lamentable. 

At  Brunnen  the  squad  landed,  leaving  the  pockets 
of  the  other  travellers  swollen  with  pious  little 
tracts;  and  almost  immediately  after  the  songs 
and   the   accordion  of  these  poor   larvae   ceased, 


192  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

the  sky  began  to  clear  and  patches  of  blue  were 
seen. 

They  now  entered  the  lake  of  Uri,  closed  in  and 
darkened  by  lofty,  untrodden  mountains,  and  the 
tourists  pointed  out  to  each  other,  on  the  right  at 
the  foot  of  the  Seelisberg,  the  field  of  Griitli,  where 
Melchtal,  Fiirst,  and  Stauffacher  made  oath  to 
deliver  their  country. 

Tartarin,  with  much  emotion,  took  off  his  cap, 
paying  no  attention  to  environing  amazement,  and 
waved  it  in  the  air  three  times,  to  do  honour  to 
the  ashes  of  those  heroes.  A  few  of  the  passengers 
mistook  his  purpose,  and  politely  returned  his 
bow. 

The  engine  at  last  gave  a  hoarse  roar,  its  echo 
repercussioning  from  cliff  to  cliff  of  the  narrow 
space.  The  notice  hung  out  on  deck  before  each 
new  landing-place  (as  they  do  at  public  balls  to 
vary  the  country  dances)  announced  the  Tells- 
platte. 

They  arrived. 

The  chapel  is  situated  just  five  minutes'  walk 
from  the  landing,  at  the  edge  of  the  lake,  on  the 
very  rock  to  which  William  Tell  sprang,  during 
the  tempest,  from  Gessler's  boat.  It  was  to  Tar- 
tarin a  most  delightful  emotion  to  tread,  as  he 
followed  the  travellers  of  the  Circular  Cook  along 
the  lakeside,  that  historic  soil,  to  recall  and  live 
again  the  principal  episodes  of  the  great  drama 
which  he  knew  as  he  did  his  own  life. 

From  his  earliest  years,  William  Tell  had  been 
his  type.     When,  in  the  Bezuquet  pharmacy,  they 


On  the  Boat,  193 

played  the  game  of  preference,  each  person  writing 
secretly  on  folded  slips  the  poet,  the  tree,  the 
odour,  the  hero,  the  woman  he  preferred,  one  of 
the  papers  invariably  ran  thus :  — 

"  Tree  preferred  ?     .     .     .     .  the  baobab. 

Odour?  ....  gunpowder. 

Writer?  ....  Fenimore  Cooper. 

What  I  would  prefer  to  be  William  Tell." 

And  every  voice  in  the  pharmacy  cried  out: 
'^That's  Tartarin!" 

Imagine,  therefore,  how  happy  he  was  and  how 
his  heart  was  beating  as  he  stood  before  that 
memorial  chapel  raised  to  a  hero  by  the  gratitude 
of  a  whole  people.  It  seemed  to  him  that  William 
Tell  in  person,  still  dripping  with  the  waters  of  the 
lake,  his  crossbow  and  his  arrows  in  hand,  was 
about  to  open  the  door  to  him. 

"  No  entrance.  .  .  I  am  at  work.  .  .  This  is 
not  the  day.  .  ."  cried  a  loud  voice  from  within, 
made  louder  by  the  sonority  of  the  vaulted  roof. 

"  Monsieur  Astier-Rehu,  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy. .  ." 

**  Herr  Doctor  Professor  Schwanthaler.  .  ." 

"  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  .  ." 

In  the  arch  above  the  portal,  perched  upon  a 
scaffolding,  appeared  a  half-length  of  the  painter 
in  working-blouse,  palette  in  hand. 

"■  yiy  famulus  will  come  down  and  open  to  you, 
messieurs,"  he  said  with  respectful  intonations. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,  pardi  !  "  thought  Tartarin ;  **  I 
had  only  to  name  myself." 

13 


194  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

However,  he  had  the  good  taste  to  stand  aside 
modestly,  and  only  entered  after  all  the  others. 

The  painter,  superb  fellow,  with  the  gilded, 
ruddy  head  of  an  artist  of  the  Renaissance,  re- 
ceived his  visitors  on  the  wooden  steps  which 
led  to  the  temporary  staging  put  up  for  the 
purpose  of  painting  the  roof.  The  frescos,  re- 
presenting the  principal  episodes  in  the  life  of 
William  Tell,  were  finished,  all  but  one,  namely: 
the  scene  of  the  apple  in  the  market-place  of 
Altorf.  On  this  he  was  now  at  work,  and  his 
young  famulus,  as  he  called  him,  feet  and  legs 
bare  under  a  toga  of  the  middle  ages,  and  his 
hair  archangelically  arranged,  was  posing  as  the 
son  of  William  Tell. 

All  these  archaic  personages,  red,  green,  yellow, 
blue,  made  taller  than  nature  in  narrow  streets  and 
under  the  posterns  of  the  period,  intended,  of 
course,  to  be  seen  at  a  distance,  impressed  the 
spectators  rather  sadly.  However,  they  were  there 
to  admire,  and  they  admired.  Besides,  none  of 
them  knew  anything. 

*'  I  consider  that  a  fine  characterization,"  said 
the  pontifical  Astier-Rehu,  carpet-bag  in  hand. 

And  Schwanthaler,  a  camp-stool  under  his  arm, 
not  willing  to  be  behindhand,  quoted  two  verses 
of  Schiller,  most  of  it  remaining  in  his  flowing 
beard.  Then  the  ladies  exclaimed,  and  for  a 
time  nothing  was  heard  but:  — 

"  Schon !  .  .  schon.  .  ." 

"  Yes .  .  .  lovely.  .  ." 

"  Exquisite  !   delicious  !  .  ." 


On  the  Boat.  195 

One  might  have  thought  one's  self  at  a  confec- 
tioner's. 

Abruptly  a  voice  broke  forth,  rending  with  the 
ring  of  a  trumpet  that  composed  silence. 

"  Badly  shouldered,  I  tell  you.  .  .  That  cross- 
bow is  not  in  place.  .  ." 

Imagine  the  stupor  of  the  painter  in  presence  of 
this  exorbitant  Alpinist,  who,  alpenstock  in  hand 
and  ice-axe  on  his  shoulder,  risking  the  annihila- 
tion of  somebody  at  each  of  his  many  evolutions, 
was  demonstrating  to  him  by  A  +  B  that  the 
motions  of  his  William  Tell  were  not  correct. 

"  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  au  mouain.  ,  . 
I  beg  you  to  believe  it.  .  .'* 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  Who  am  I  !  "  exclaimed  the  Alpinist,  now 
thoroughly  vexed.  .  .  So  it  was  not  to  him  that 
the  door  was  opened  ;  and  drawing  himself  up  he 
said :  **  Go  ask  my  name  of  the  panthers  of  the 
Zaccar,  of  the  lions  of  Atlas  .  .  .  they  will  answer 
you,  perhaps." 

The  company  recoiled ;  there  was  general  alarm. 

**  But,"  asked  the  painter,  "  in  what  way  is  my 
action  wrong?" 

"  Look  at  me,  t//  " 

Falling  into  position  with  a  thud  of  his  heels 
that  made  the  planks  beneath  them  smoke,  Tar- 
tarin,  shouldering  his  ice-axe  like  a  crossbow,  stood 
rigid. 

"  Superb  !     He 's  right.  .  .     Don't  stir.  .  ." 

Then  to  the  /a7nulus:  **  Quick!  a  block,  char- 
coal !  .  ." 


196  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

The  fact  is,  the  Tarasconese  hero  was  something 
worth  painting,  —  squat,  round-shouldered,  head 
bent  forward,  the  muffler  round  his  chin  like  a 
strap,  and  his  flaming  little  eye  taking  aim  at  the 
terrified  famulus. 

Imagination,  O  magic  power !  .  .  He  thought 
himself  on  the  marketplace  of  Altorf,  in  front  of 
his  own  child,  he,  who  had  never  had  any;  an 
arrow  in  his  bow,  another  in  his  belt  to  pierce  the 
heart  of  the  tyrant.  His  conviction  became  so 
strong  that  it  conveyed  itself  to  others. 

*"  T  is  William  Tell  himself!  .  ."  said  the  painter, 
crouched  on  a  stool  and  driving  his  sketch  with  a 
feverish  hand.  "  Ah !  monsieur,  why  did  I  not 
know  you  earlier?  What  a  model  you  would  have 
been  for  me !  .  ." 

"  Really  !  then  you  see  some  resemblance?  "  said 
Tartarin,  much  flattered,  but  keeping  his  pose. 

Yes,  it  was  just  so  that  the  artist  imagined  his 
hero. 

"The  head,  too?" 

"  Oh !  the  head,  that 's  no  matter  .  .  ."  and  the 
painter  stepped  back  to  look  at  his  sketch.  "  Yes, 
a  virile  mask,  energetic,  just  what  I  wanted  — 
inasmuch  as  nobody  knows  anything  about  William 
Tell,  who  probably  never  existed." 

Tartarin  dropped  the  cross-bow  from  stupefac- 
tion. 

"  Outre!  ^  .  .  Never  existed !  .  .  What  is  that 
you  are  saying?" 

1  "  Outre  "  and  "  boufre  "  are  Tarasconese  oaths  of  mys- 
terious etymology. 


On  the  Boat.  197 

"  Ask  these  gentlemen.  .  ." 

Astier-R6hu,  solemn,  his  three  chins  in  his 
white  cravat,  said  :   "  That  is  a  Danish  legend." 

**  Icelandic.  . .  "  affirmed  Schwanthaler,  no  less 
majestic. 

"  Saxo  Grammaticus  relates  that  a  valiant  archer 
named  Tobe  or  Paltanoke  .  .  ." 

"  Es  ist  in  der  Vilkinasaga  geschrieben  .  .  ." 

Both   together :  — 


was  condemned  by  the 
King  of  Denmark  Harold 
of  the  Blue  Teeth  .  .  ." 


dass  der  Islandische  Ko- 
nig  Needing  .  .  ." 


With  staring  eyes  and  arms  extended,  neither 
looking  at  nor  comprehending  each  other,  they 
both  talked  at  once,  as  if  on  a  rostrum,  in  the 
doctoral,  despotic  tones  of  professors  certain  of 
never  being  refuted;  until,  getting  angry,  they 
only  shouted  names :  **  Justinger  of  Berne !  .  . 
Jean  of  Winterthur !  .  ." 

Little  by  little,  the  discussion  became  general, 
excited,  and  furious  among  the  visitors.  Umbrellas, 
camp-stools,  and  vaHses  were  brandished;  the 
unhappy  artist,  trembling  for  the  safety  of  his 
scaffolding,  went  from  one  to  another  imploring 
peace.  When  the  tempest  had  abated,  he  returned 
to  his  sketch  and  looked  for  his  mysterious 
model,  for  him  whose  name  the  panthers  of  the 
Zaccar  and  the  lions  of  Atlas  could  alone  pro- 
nounce; but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen;  the 
Alpinist  had  disappeared. 


198  Tartarhi  07z  the  Alps, 

At  that  moment  he  was  clambering  with  furious 
strides  up  a  little  path  among  beeches  and  birches 
that  led  to  the  Hotel  Tellsplatte,  where  the  courier 
of  the  Peruvian  family  was  to  pass  the  night ;  and 
under  the  shock  of  his  deception  he  was  talking 
to  himself  in  a  loud  voice  and  ramming  his 
alpenstock  furiously  into  the  sodden  ground :  — 

Never  existed!  William  Tell!  William  Tell  a 
myth !  And  it  was  a  painter  charged  with  the 
duty  of  decorating  the  Tellsplatte  who  said  that 
calmly.  He  hated  him  as  if  for  a  sacrilege ;  he 
hated  those  learned  men,  and  this  denying,  demol- 
ishing impious  age,  which  respects  nothing,  neither 
fame  nor  grandeur  —  coqum  de  sort! 

And  so,  two  hundred,  three  hundred  years  hence, 
when  Tartarin  was  spoken  of  there  would  always 
be  Astier-Rehus  and  Professor  Schwanthalers  to 
deny  that  he  ever  existed  —  a  Provencal  myth  I  a 
Barbary  legend !  .  .  He  stopped,  choking  with 
indignation  and  his  rapid  climb,  and  seated  himself 
on  a  rustic  bench. 

From  there  he  could  see  the  lake  between  the 
branches,  and  the  white  walls  of  the  chapel  like  a 
new  mausoleum.  A  roaring  of  steam  and  the 
bustle  of  getting  to  the  wharf  announced  the  arri- 
val of  fresh  visitors.  They  collected  on  the 
bank,  guide-books  in  hand,  and  then  advanced 
with  thoughtful  gestures  and  extended  arms,  evi- 
dently relating  the  *Megend."  Suddenly,  by  an 
abrupt  revulsion  of  ideas,  the  comicality  of  the 
whole  thing  struck  him. 

He  pictured  to  himself  all  historical  Switzerland 


On  the  Boat.  199 

living  upon  this  imaginary  hero;  raising  statues 
and  chapels  in  his  honour  on  the  Httle  squares  of 
the  little  towns,  and  placing  monuments  in  the 
museums  of  the  great  ones;  organizing  patri- 
otic fetes,  to  which  everybody  rushed,  banners 
displayed,  from  all  the  cantons,  with  banquets, 
toasts,  speeches,  hurrahs,  songs,  and  tears  swelling 
all  breasts,  and  this  for  a  great  patriot,  whom 
everybody  knew  had  never  existed. 

Talk  of  Tarascon  indeed  !  There  's  a  tarasconade 
for  you,  the  like  of  which  was  never  invented  down 
there ! 

His  good-humour  quite  restored,  Tartarin  in  a 
few  sturdy  strides  struck  the  highroad  to  Fluelen, 
at  the  side  of  which  the  Hotel  Tellsplatte  spreads 
out  its  long  facade.  While  awaiting  the  dinner- 
bell  the  guests  were  walking  about  in  front  of  a 
cascade  over  rock-work  on  the  gullied  road,  where 
landaus  were  drawn  up,  their  poles  on  the  ground 
among  puddles  of  water  in  which  was  reflected  a 
copper-coloured  sun. 

Tartarin  inquired  for  his  man.  They  told  him 
he  was  dining.  "  Then  take  me  to  him,  zou! " 
and  this  was  said  with  such  authority  that  in  spite 
of  the  respectful  repugnance  shown  to  disturbing 
so  important  a  personage,  a  maid-servant  con- 
ducted the  Alpinist  through  the  whole  hotel, 
where  his  advent  created  some  amazement,  to  the 
invaluable  courier  who  was  dining  alone  in  a  little 
room  that  looked  upon  the  court-yard. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Tartarin  as  he  entered,  his  ice- 
axe  on  his  shoulder,  **  excuse  me  if.  .  .  ** 


200  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

He  stopped  stupefied,  and  the  courier,  tall,  lank, 
his  napkin  at  his  chin,  in  the  savoury  steam  of  a 
plateful  of  hot  soup,  let  fall  his  spoon. 

"  Ve  !  Monsieur  Tartarin.  .  .  " 

''  Te  !  Bompard." 

It  was  Bompard,  former  manager  of  the  Club,  a 
good  fellow,  but  afflicted  with  a  fabulous  imagi- 
nation which  rendered  him  incapable  of  telling  a 
word  of  truth,  and  had  caused  him  to  be  nicknamed 
in  Tarascon  '*  The  Impostor." 

Called  an  impostor  in  Tarascon !  you  can  judge 
what  he  must  have  been.  And  this  was  the 
incomparable  guide,  the  climber  of  the  Alps,  the 
Himalayas,  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 

**  Oh !  now,  then,  I  understand,"  ejaculated 
Tartarin,  rather  nonplussed;  but,  even  so,  joyful  to 
see  a  face  from  home  and  to  hear  once  more  that 
dear,  delicious  accent  of  the  Cours. 

"  Dijferemmenty  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  '11  dine 
with  me,  que  f  " 

Tartarin  hastened  to  accept,  delighted  at  the 
pleasure  of  sitting  down  at  a  private  table  oppo- 
site to  a  friend,  without  the  very  smallest  litigious 
compote-dish  between  them,  to  be  able  to  hobnob, 
to  talk  as  he  ate,  and  to  eat  good  things,  carefully 
cooked  and  fresh;  for  couriers  are  admirably 
treated  by  innkeepers,  and  served  apart  with  all 
the  best  wines  and  the  extra  dainties. 

Many  were  the  at^-  mouainSy  pas  mouainSy  and 
differ  em  ments. 

**  Then,  my  dear  fellow,  it  was  really  you  I  heard 
last  night,  up  there,  on  the  platform?  .  .  " 


On  the  Boat,  201 

"  Hey !  parfaitemain.  .  .  I  was  making  those 
young  ladies  admire.  .  .  Fine,  is  n't  it,  sunrise  on 
the  Alps?" 

"  Superb  !  "  cried  Tartarin,  at  first  without  convic- 
tion and  merely  to  avoid  contradicting  him,  but 
caught  the  next  minute;  and  after  that  it  was 
really  bewildering  to  hear  those  two  Tarasconese 
enthusiasts  lauding  the  splendours  they  had  found 
on  the  Rigi.     It  was  Joanne  capping  Baedeker. 

Then,  as  the  meal  went  on,  the  conversation 
became  more  intimate,  full  of  confidences  and 
effusive  protestations,  which  brought  real  tears  to 
their  Provencal  eyes,  lively,  brilliant  eyes,  but 
keeping  always  in  their  facile  emotion  a  little 
corner  of  jest  and  satire.  In  that  alone  did  the 
two  friends  resemble  each  other;  for  in  person 
one  was  as  lean,  tanned,  weatherbeaten,  seamed 
with  the  wrinkles  special  to  the  grimaces  of  his 
profession,  as  the  other  was  short,  stocky,  sleek- 
skinned,  and  sound-blooded. 

He  had  seen  all,  that  poor  Bompard,  since  his 
exodus  from  the  Club.  That  insatiable  imagi- 
nation of  his  which  prevented  him  from  ever  stay- 
ing in  one  place  had  kept  him  wandering  under  so 
many  suns,  and  through  such  diverse  fortunes. 
He  related  his  adventures,  and  counted  up  the  fine 
occasions  to  enrich  himself  which  had  snapped, 
there !  in  his  fingers  —  such  as  his  last  invention 
for  saving  the  war-budget  the  cost  of  boots  and 
shoes.  .  .  Do  you  know  how?  .  .  Oh,  moun  Diou  ! 
it  is  very  simple  ...  by  shoeing  the  feet  of  the 
soldiers." 


202  Tartarin  07t  the  Alps, 

*'  Outre  !  "  cried  Tartarin,  horrified. 

Bompard  continued  very  calmly,  with  his  natural 
air  of  cold  madness :  — 

"  A  great  idea,  was  n't  it  ?  Eh !  ^//  at  the 
ministry  they  did  not  even  answer  me.  .  .  Ah! 
my  poor  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  have  had  my  bad 
moments,  I  have  eaten  the  bread  of  poverty  before 
I  entered  the  service  of  the  Company.  .  ,  " 

"  Company  !  what  Company  ?  " 

Bompard  lowered  his  voice  discreetly. 

*'  Hush  !  presently,  not  here.  .  .  "  Then  return- 
ing to  his  natural  tones,  "  Et  autremahty  you 
people  at  Tarascon,  what  are  you  all  doing?  You 
have  n't  yet  told  me  what  brings  you  to  our 
mountains  ..." 

It  was  now  for  Tartarin  to  pour  himself  out. 
Without  anger,  but  with  that  melancholy  of  de- 
clining years,  that  ennui  which  attacks  as  they 
grow  elderly  great  artists,  beautiful  women,  and  all 
conquerors  of  peoples  and  hearts,  he  told  of  the 
defection  of  his  compatriots,  the  plot  laid  against 
him  to  deprive  him  of  the  presidency,  the  decision 
he  had  come  to  to  do  some  act  of  heroism,  a  great 
ascension,  the  Tarasconese  banner  borne  higher 
than  it  had  ever  before  been  planted ;  in  short,  to 
prove  to  the  Alpinists  of  Tarascon  that  he  was  still 
worthy  .  .  .  still  worthy  of .  .  .  Emotion  overcame 
him,  he  was  forced  to  keep  silence  .  .  .  Then 
he  added :  — 

"  You  know  me,  Gonzague  ..."  and  nothing  can 
ever  render  the  effusion,  the  caressing  charm  with 
which  he  uttered  that  troubadouresque  Christian 


On  the  Boat  203 

name  of  the  courier.  It  was  like  one  way  of 
pressing  his  hands,  of  coming  nearer  to  his 
heart  ...  **  You  know  me,  qu^ !  You  know  if  I 
balked  when  the  question  came  up  of  marching 
upon  the  lion ;  and  during  the  war,  when  we 
organized  together  the  defences  of  the  Club  ..." 

Bompard  nodded  his  head  with  terrible  empha- 
sis ;  he  thought  he  was  there  still. 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  what  the  lions,  what  the 
Krupp  cannon  could  never  do,  the  Alps  have 
accomplished  ...  I  am  afraid." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Tartarin  !  " 

"Why  not?"  said  the  hero,  with  great  gentle- 
ness. .  .  "  I  say  it,  because  it  is  so.  .  .  " 

And  tranquilly,  without  posing,  he  acknowledged 
the  impression  made  upon  him  by  Dore's  drawing 
of  that  catastrophe  on  the  Matterhorn,  which  was 
ever  before  his  eyes.  He  feared  those  perils,  and 
being  told  of  an  extraordinary  guide,  capable  of 
avoiding  them,  he  resolved  to  seek  him  out  and 
confide  in  him. 

Then,  in  a  tone  more  natural,  he  added:  "You 
have  never  been  a  guide,  have  you,  Gonzague?  " 

"//■/.'  yes,"  replied  Bompard,  smiling.  .  .  "  Only, 
I  never  did  all  that  I  related." 

"  That  *s  understood,"  assented  Tartarin. 

And  the  other  added  in  a  whisper :  — 

**  Let  us  go  out  on  the  road ;  we  can  talk  more 
freely  there." 

It  was  getting  dark ;  a  warm  damp  breeze  was 
rolling  up  black  clouds  upon  the  sky,  where  the 
setting  sun  had  left  behind  it  a  vague  gray  mist 


204  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps. 

They  went  along  the  shore  in  the  direction  of  FIu- 
elen,  crossing  the  mute  shadows  of  hungry  tourists 
returning  to  the  hotel;  shadows  themselves,  and 
not  speaking  until  they  reached  a  tunnel  through 
which  the  road  is  cut,  opening  at  intervals  to 
little  terraces  overhanging  the  lake. 

"  Let  us  stop  here,"  pealed  forth  the  hollow 
voice  of  Bompard,  which  resounded  under  the 
vaulted  roof  like  a  cannon-shot.  There,  seated  on 
the  parapet,  they  contemplated  that  admirable 
view  of  the  lake,  the  downward  rush  of  the  fir- 
trees  and  beeches  pressing  blackly  together  in 
the  foreground,  and  farther  on,  the  higher  moun- 
tains with  waving  summits,  and  farther  still,  others 
of  a  bluish-gray  confusion  as  of  clouds,  in  the 
midst  of  which  lay,  though  scarcely  visible,  the 
long  white  trail  of  a  glacier,  winding  through 
the  hollows  and  suddenly  illumined  with  irised 
fire,  yellow,  red,  and  green.  They  were  exhibit- 
ing the  mountain  with  Bengal  lights  ! 

From  Fluelen  the  rockets  rose,  scattering  their 
multicoloured  stars  ;  Venetian  lanterns  went  and 
came  in  boats  that  remained  invisible  while  bearing 
bands  of  music  and  pleasure-seekers. 

A  fairylike  decoration  seen  through  the  frame, 
cold  and  architectural,  of  the  granite  walls  of  the 
tunnel. 

"  What  a  queer  country,  pas  mouam^  this 
Switzerland  ..."  cried  Tartarin. 

Bompard  burst  out  laughing. 

**  Ah !  vai,  Switzerland  !  .  .  In  the  first  place, 
there  is  no  Switzerland." 


Confidences  i7i  a  Tunnel,  205 


Confidences  in  a  tunnel. 

"  Switzerland,  in  our  day,  ve!  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin,  is  nothing  more  than  a  vast  Kursaal,  open 
from  June  to  September,  a  panoramic  casino, 
where  people  come  from  all  four  quarters  of  the 
globe  to  amuse  themselves,  and  which  is  manipula- 
ted and  managed  by  a  Company  richissime  by 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  millions,  which  has 
its  offices  in  London  and  Geneva.  It  costs  money, 
you  may  be  sure,  to  lease  and  brush  up  and  trick 
out  all  this  territory,  lakes,  forests,  mountains, 
cascades,  and  to  keep  a  whole  people  of  employes, 
supernumeraries,  and  what  not,  and  set  up  miracu- 
lous hotels  on  the  highest  summits,  with  gas, 
telegraphs,  telephones  !  .  .  " 

"  That,  at  least,  is  true,"  said  Tartarin,  thinking 
aloud,  and  remembering  the  Rigi. 

"  True !  .  .  But  you  have  seen  nothing  yet.  .  . 
Go  on  through  the  country  and  you  '11  not  find 
one  corner  that  is  n't  engineered  and  machine- 
worked  like  the  under  stage  of  the  Opera, — 
cascades  lighted  a  giorno,  turnstiles  at  the  entrance 
to  the  glaciers,  and  loads  of  railways,  hydraulic 
and    funicular,  for   ascensions.     To   be  sure,   the 


2o6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

Company,  in  view  of  its  clients  the  English  and 
American  climbers,  keeps  up  on  the  noted 
mountains,  Jungfrau,  Monk,  Finsteraarhorn,  an 
appearance  of  danger  and  desolation,  though 
in  reality  there  is  no  more  risk  there  than  else- 
where .  .  ." 

"  But  the  crevasses,  my  good  fellow,  those 
horrible  crevasses  .  .  .  Suppose  one  falls  into 
them?" 

**  You  fall  on  snow.  Monsieur  Tartarin,  and  you 
don't  hurt  yourself,  and  there  is  always  at  the 
bottom  a  porter,  a  hunter,  at  any  rate  some  one, 
who  picks  you  up,  shakes  and  brushes  you,  and 
asks  graciously  :   *  Has  monsieur  any  baggage?  '  " 

"  What  stuff  are  you  telling  me  now,  Gonzague  ?  " 

Bompard  redoubled  in  gravity. 

"  The  keeping  up  of  those  crevasses  is  one 
of  the  heaviest  expenses  of  the  Company." 

Silence  fell  for  a  moment  under  the  tunnel, 
the  surroundings  of  which  were  quieting  down. 
No  more  varied  fireworks,  Bengal  lights,  or  boats 
on  the  water ;  but  the  moon  had  risen  and  made 
another  conventional  landscape,  bluish,  liquides- 
cent,  with  masses  of  impenetrable  shadow.  .  . 

Tartarin  hesitated  to  believe  his  companion  on 
his  word.  Nevertheless,  he  reflected  on  the 
extraordinary  things  he  had  seen  in  four  days  — 
the  sun  on  the  Rigi,  the  farce  of  William  Tell  — 
and  Bompard's  inventions  seemed  to  him  all 
the  more  probable  because  in  every  Tarasconese 
the  braggart  is  leashed  with  a  gull. 

**  Differ emment,  my   good  friend,  how    do  you 


Conjidences  in  a  Tunnel.  207 

explain  certain  awful  catastrophes  . . .  that  of  the 
Matterhorn,  for  instance  ?  . ." 

"  It  is  sixteen  years  since  that  happened ;  the 
Company  was  not  then  constituted,  Monsieur 
Tartarin." 

"  But  last  year,  the  accident  on  the  Wetterhorn, 
two  guides  buried  with  their  travellers !  .  .  " 

"  Must,  sometimes,  //,  pardi!  .  .  you  under- 
stand .  .  .  whets  the  Alpinists  .  .  .  The  English 
won't  come  to  mountains  now  where  heads  are 
not  broke  .  .  .  The  Wetterhorn  had  been  running 
down  for  some  time,  but  after  that  little  item  in 
the  papers  the  receipts  went  up  at  once." 

**Then  the  two  guides?  .  .  " 

"They  are  just  as  safe  as  the  travellers;  only 
they  are  kept  out  of  sight,  supported  in  foreign 
parts,  for  six  months  ...  A  puff  like  that  costs 
dear,  but  the  Company  is  rich  enough  to  afford  it." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Gonzague.  .  .  " 

Tartarin  had  risen,  one  hand  on  Bompard's 
shoulder. 

**  You  would  not  wish  to  have  any  misfortune 
happen  to  me,  qii^f  .  .  Well,  then  !  speak  to  me 
frankly  .  .  .  you  know  my  capacities  as  an  Alpinist ; 
they  are  moderate." 

"  Very  moderate,  that 's  true." 

"  Do  you  think,  nevertheless,  that  I  could,  with- 
out too  much  danger,  undertake  the  ascension  of 
the  Jungfrau?  " 

"  I  '11  answer  for  it,  my  head  in  the  fire.  Mon- 
sieur Tartarin.  .  .  You  have  only  to  trust  to  your 
guide,  z'/.^ " 


2o8  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

"And  if  I  turn  giddy?" 

"  Shut  your  eyes." 

"And  if  I  slip?" 

"  Let  yourself  go  .  .  .  just  as  they  do  on  the 
stage  .  .  .  sort  of  trap-doors  .  .  .  there  's  no  risk.  .  ,  " 

"  Ah !  if  I  could  have  you  there  to  tell  me  all 
that,  to  keep  repeating  it  to  me  .  .  .  Look  here,  my 
good  fellow,  make  an  effort,  and  come  with  me." 

Bompard  desired  nothing  better,  pecaire !  but 
he  had  those  Peruvians  on  his  hands  for  the  rest 
of  the  season ;  and,  replying  to  his  old  friend,  who 
expressed  surprise  at  seeing  him  accept  the  func- 
tions of  a  courier,  a  subaltern,  — 

"  I  could  n't  help  myself.  Monsieur  Tartarin," 
he  said.  "  It  is  in  our  engagement.  The  Com- 
pany has  the  right  to  employ  us  as  it  pleases." 

On  which  he  began  to  count  upon  his  fingers 
his  varied  avatars  during  the  last  three  years  .  .  . 
guide  in  the  Oberland,  performer  on  the  Alpine 
horn,  chamois-hunter,  veteran  soldier  of  Charles 
X.,  Protestant  pastor  on  the  heights  .  .  . 

"  Qnh  aco?"  demanded  Tartarin,  astonished. 

^* B^ /  yes,"  replied  the  other,  composedly. 
"  When  you  travel  in  German  Switzerland  you  will 
see  pastors  preaching  on  giddy  heights,  standing 
on  rocks  or  rustic  pulpits  of  the  trunks  of  trees. 
A  few  shepherds  and  cheese-makers,  their  leather 
caps  in  their  hands,  and  women  with  their  heads 
dressed  up  in  the  costume  of  the  canton  group 
themselves  about  in  picturesque  attitudes;  the 
scenery  is  pretty,  the  pastures  green,  or  the  har- 
vest just  over,  cascades  to  the  road,  and  flocks, 


Confide7ices  in  a   Tunnel,  209 

with  their  bells  ringing  every  note  on  the  moun- 
tain. All  that,  ve  I  that 's  decorative,  suggestive. 
Only,  none  but  the  employes  of  the  Company, 
guides,  pastors,  couriers,  hotel-keepers  are  in  the 
secret,  and  it  is  their  interest  not  to  let  it  get  wind, 
for  fear  of  startling  the  clients." 

The  Alpinist  was  dumfounded,  silent — in  him 
the  acme  of  stupefaction.  In  his  heart,  whatever 
doubt  he  may  have  had  as  to  Bompard's  veracity, 
he  felt  himself  comforted  and  calmed  as  to  Alpine 
ascensions,  and  presently  the  conversation  grew 
joyous.  The  two  friends  talked  of  Tarascon,  of 
their  good,  hearty  laughs  in  the  olden  time  when 
both  were  younger. 

"Apropos  of  galejade  [jokes],"  said  Tartarin, 
suddenly,  "  they  played  me  a  fine  one  on  the  Rigi- 
Kulm.  .  .  Just  imagine  that  this  morning  ..." 
and  he  told  of  the  letter  gummed  to  his  glass, 
reciting  it  with  emphasis :  "  *  Devil  of  a  French- 
man' ...     A  hoax,  of  course,  que  f 

*'  May  be  .  .  .  who  knows?  .  ."  said  Bompard, 
seeming  to  take  the  matter  more  seriously.  He 
asked  if  Tartarin  during  his  stay  on  the  Rigi  had 
relations  with  any  one,  and  whether  he  had  n't  said 
a  word  too  much. 

**  Ha !  vai  !  a  word  too  much !  as  if  one  even 
opened  one's  mouth  among  those  EngHsh  and 
Germans,  mute  as  carp  under  pretence  of  good 
manners !  " 

On  reflection,  however,  he  did  remember  having 
clinched  a  matter,  and  sharply  too  !  with  a  species 
of  Cossack,  a  certain  Mi  .  .  .  Milanof. 

14 


2IO  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

**  Manilof,"  corrected  Bompard. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  .  .  Between  you  and  me, 
I  think  that  Manilof  had  a  spite  against  me  about 
a  httle  Russian  girl.  .  . " 

"  Yes,  Sonia.  .  . "  murmured  Bompard. 

'*  Do  you  know  her  too?  Ah!  my  friend,  a 
pearl !   a  pretty  little  gray  partridge  !  " 

"  Sonia  Wassilief.  .  .  It  was  she  who  killed 
with  one  shot  of  her  revolver  in  the  open  that 
General  Felianine,  the  president  of  the  Council  of 
War  which  condemned  her  brother  to  perpetual 
exile." 

Sonia  an  assassin?  that  child,  that  little  blond 
fairy !  .  .  Tartarin  could  not  believe  it.  But 
Bompard  gave  precise  particulars  and  details  of 
the  affair  —  which,  indeed,  is  very  well  known. 
Sonia  had  lived  for  the  last  two  years  in  Zurich, 
where  her  brother  Boris,  having  escaped  from 
Siberia,  joined  her,  his  lungs  gone;  and  during  the 
summers  she  took  him  for  better  air  to  the  moun- 
tains. Bompard  had  often  met  them,  attended  by 
friends  who  were  all  exiles,  conspirators.  The 
Wassiliefs,  very  intelligent,  very  energetic,  and 
still  possessed  of  some  fortune,  were  at  the  head 
of  the  Nihilist  party,  with  Bolibine,  the  man  who 
murdered  the  prefect  of  police,  and  this  very 
Manilof,  who  blew  up  the  Winter  Palace  last  year. 

''Boiifre!''  exclaimed  Tartarin,  "one  meets  with 
queer  neighbours  on  the  Rigi." 

But  here's  another  thing.  Bompard  took  it  into 
his  head  that  Tartarin's  letter  came  from  these 
young  people;  it  was  just  like  their  Nihilist  pro- 


Confidences  m  a   Ttinnel.  2 1 1 

ceedings.  The  czar,  every  morning,  found  warn- 
ings in  his  study,  under  his  napkin.  .  . 

"  But,"  said  Tartarin,  turning  pale,  "  why  such 
threats?     What  have  I  done  to  them?" 

Bompard  thought  they  must  have  taken  him  for 
a  spy. 

*♦  A  spy  !  I ! 

"  Be  /  yes."  In  all  the  Nihilist  centres,  at  Zurich, 
Lausanne,  Geneva,  Russia  maintained  at  great 
cost,  a  numerous  body  of  spies ;  in  fact,  for  some 
time  past  she  had  had  in  her  service  the  former 
chief  of  the  French  Imperial  police,  with  a  dozen 
Corsicans,  who  followed  and  watched  all  Russian 
exiles,  and  took  countless  disguises  in  order  to 
detect  them.  The  costume  of  the  Alpinist,  his 
spectacles,  his  accent,  were  quite  enough  to  con- 
found him  in  their  minds  with  those  agents. 

"  Coqiiin  de  sort!  now  I  think  of  it,"  said  Tar- 
tarin, **  they  had  at  their  heels  the  whole  time  a 
rascally  Italian  tenor  .  .  .  undoubtedly  a  spy.  .  . 
Diff&emment,  what  must  I  do?" 

"  Above  all  things,  never  put  yourself  in  the  way 
of  those  people  again  ;  now  that  they^ave  warned 
you  they  will  do  you  harm.  .  . " 

*'  Ha  !  va'il  harm  !  .  .  The  first  one  that  comes 
near  me  I  shall  cleave  his  head  with  my  ice-axe." 

And  in  the  gloom  of  the  tunnel  the  eyes  of  the 
Tarasconese  hero  glared.  But  Bompard,  less  con- 
fident than  he,  knew  well  that  the  hatred  of  Nihilists 
is  terrible ;  it  attacks  from  below,  it  undermines, 
and  plots.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  a  lapin  like  the 
president,  but  you  had  better  beware  of  that  inn 


212  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

bed  you  sleep  in,  and  the  chair  you  sit  upon,  and 
the  rail  of  the  steamboat,  which  will  give  way  sud- 
denly and  drop  you  to  death.  And  think  of  the 
cooking-dishes  prepared,  the  glass  rubbed  over 
with  invisible  poison ! 

"  Beware  of  the  kirsch  in  your  flask,  and  the 
frothing  milk  that  cow-man  in  sabots  brings  you. 
They  stop  at  nothing,  I  tell  you." 

**  If  so,  what's  to  be  done!  I'm  doomed!" 
groaned  Tartarin ;  then,  grasping  the  hand  of  his 
companion :  — 

"  Advise  me,  Gonzague." 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  Bompard  traced 
out  to  him  a  programme.  To  leave  the  next  day, 
early,  cross  the  lake  and  the  Briinig  pass,  and  sleep 
at  Interlaken.  The  next  day,  to  Grindelwald  and 
the  Little  Scheideck.  And  the  day  after,  the 
JUNGFRAU  !  After  that,  home  to  Tarascon,  with- 
out losing  an  hour,  or  looking  back. 

"  I  '11  start  to-morrow,  Gonzague  .  .  ."  declared 
the  hero,  in  a  virile  voice,  with  a  look  of  terror  at 
the  mysterious  horizon,  now  dim  in  the  darkness, 
and  at  the  lake  which  seemed  to  him  to  harbour 
all  treachery  beneath  the  glassy  calm  of  its  pale 
reflections. 


The  Brunig  Pass.  213 


VI. 

The  Brunig  pass.  Tartarin  falls  into  the  hands  of 
Nihilists.  Disappearance  of  an  Italian  tenor  and  a  rope 
made  at  Avignon.  Fresh  exploits  of  the  cap-sportsman. 
Pan  I  pan  / 

*'  Get  in  !  get  in  !  " 

"  But  how  the  devil,  qu^  I  am  I  to  get  in  ?  the 
places  are  full  .  .  .  they  won't  make  room  for  me." 

This  was  said  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  lake  of 
the  Four  Cantons,  on  that  shore  at  Alpnach,  damp 
and  soggy  as  a  delta,  where  the  post-carriages  wait 
in  line  to  convey  tourists  leaving  the  boat  to  cross 
the  Brunig. 

A  fine  rain  like  needle-points  had  been  falHng 
since  morning ;  and  the  worthy  Tartarin,  hampered 
by  his  armament,  hustled  by  the  porters  and  the 
custom-house  officials,  ran  from  carriage  to  car- 
riage, sonorous  and  lumbering  as  that  orchestra- 
man  one  sees  at  fairs,  whose  every  movement  sets 
a-going  triangles,  big  drums,  Chinese  bells,  and 
cymbals.  At  all  the  doors  the  same  cry  of  terror, 
the  same  crabbed  "  Full !  "  growled  in  all  dialects, 
the  same  swelling-out  of  bodies  and  garments 
to  take  as  much  room  as  possible  and  prevent 
the  entrance  of  so  dangerous  and  resounding  a 
companion. 


214  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

The  unfortunate  Alpinist  puffed,  sweated,  and 
replied  with  "  Coquin  de  bon  sort!''  and  despair- 
ing gestures  to  the  impatient  clamour  of  the  con- 
voy :  *'  En  route  !  .  .  All  right !  .  .  Andiamo  ! 
.  .  Vorwarts !  .  ."  The  horses  pawed,  the  drivers 
h  wore.  Finally,  the  manager  of  the  post-route,  a 
t.ill,  ruddy  fellow  in  a  tunic  and  flat  cap,  interfered 
himself,  and  opening  forcibly  the  door  of  a  landau, 
the  top  of  which  was  half  up,  he  pushed  in  Tar- 
tarin, hoisting  him  like  a  bundle,  and  then  stood, 
majestically,  with  outstretched  hand  for  his  trink- 
geld. 

Humiliated,  furious  with  the  people  in  the  car- 
riage who  were  forced  to  accept  him  manu  'inilitariy 
Tartarin  affected  not  to  look  at  them,  rammed  his 
porte-monnaie  back  into  his  pocket,  wedged  his 
ice-axe  on  one  side  of  him  with  ill-humoured  mo- 
tions and  an  air  of  determined  brutality,  as  if  he 
were  a  passenger  by  the  Dover  steamer  landing  at 
Calais. 

*'  Good-morning,  monsieur,"  said  a  gentle  voice 
he  had  heard  already. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  sat  horrified,  terrified 
before  the  pretty,  round  and  rosy  face  of  Sonia, 
seated  directly  in  front  of  him,  beneath  the  hood  of 
the  landau,  which  also  sheltered  a  tall  young  man, 
wrapped  in  shawls  and  rugs,  of  whom  nothing 
could  be  seen  but  a  forehead  of  livid  paleness  and 
a  few  thin  meshes  of  hair,  golden  like  the  rim  of 
his  near-sighted  spectacles.  A  third  person,  whom 
Tartarin  knew  but  too  well,  accompanied  them,  — 
Manilof,  the  incendiary  of  the  Winter  Palace. 


The  Briinig  Pass.  215 

Sonia,  Manilof,  what  a  mouse-trap ! 

This  was  the  moment  when  they  meant  to  ac- 
complish their  threat,  on  that  Briinig  pass,  so 
craggy,  so  surrounded  with  abysses.  And  the 
hero,  by  one  of  those  flashes  of  horror  which  re- 
veal the  depths  of  danger,  beheld  himself  stretched 
on  the  rocks  of  a  ravine,  or  swinging  from  the 
topmost  branches  of  an  oak.  Fly  !  yes,  but  where, 
how?  The  vehicles  had  started  in  file  at  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet,  a  crowd  of  little  ragamuffins  were 
clambering  at  the  doors  with  bunches  of  edelweiss. 
Tartarin,  maddened,  had  a  mind  to  begin  the  attack 
by  cleaving  the  head  of  the  Cossack  beside  him 
with  his  alpenstock ;  then,  on  reflection,  he  felt  it 
was  more  prudent  to  refrain.  Evidently,  these 
people  would  not  attempt  their  scheme  till  farther 
on,  in  regions  uninhabited,  and  before  that,  there 
might  come  means  of  getting  out.  Besides,  their 
intentions  no  longer  seemed  to  him  quite  so  malev- 
olent. Sonia  smiled  gently  upon  him  from  her 
pretty  turquoise  eyes,  the  pale  young  man  looked 
pleasantly  at  him,  and  Manilof,  visibly  milder, 
moved  obligingly  aside  and  helped  him  to  put  his 
bag  between  them.  Had  they  discovered  their 
mistake  by  reading  on  the  register  of  the  Rigi- 
Kulm  the  illustrious  name  of  Tartarin?  .  .  He 
wished  to  make  sure,  and,  familiarly,  good- 
humouredly,  he  began:  — 

"  Enchanted  with  this  meeting,  beautiful  young 
lady  .  .  .  only,  permit  me  to  introduce  myself .  .  . 
you  are  ignorant  with  whom  you  have  to  do,  v^  f 
whereas,  I  am  perfectly  aware  who  you  are." 


2i6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  little  Sonia,  still  smiling,  but 
pointing  with  her  gloved  finger  to  the  seat  beside 
the  driver,  where  sat  the  tenor  with  his  sleeve- 
buttons,  and  another  young  Russian,  sheltering 
themselves  under  the  same  umbrella,  and  laughing 
and  talking  in  Italian. 

Between  the  poHce  and  the  Nihilists,  Tartarin 
did  not  hesitate. 

**  Do  you  know  that  man,  au  mouain  ?  "  he  said 
in  a  low  voice,  putting  his  head  quite  close  to 
Sonia's  fresh  cheeks,  and  seeing  himself  in  her 
clear  eyes,  which  suddenly  turned  hard  and  savage 
as  she  answered  ''  yes,"  with  a  snap  of  their  lids. 

The  hero  shuddered,  but  as  one  shudders  at  the 
theatre,  with  that  delightful  creeping  of  the  epi- 
dermis which  takes  you  when  the  action  becomes 
Corsican,  and  you  settle  yourself  in  your  seat  to 
see  and  to  listen  more  attentively.  Personally  out 
of  the  affair,  delivered  from  the  mortal  terrors 
which  had  haunted  him  all  night  and  prevented 
him  from  swallowing  his  usual  Swiss  coffee,  honey, 
and  butter,  he  breathed  with  free  lungs,  thought 
life  good,  and  this  little  Russian  irresistibly  pleas- 
ing in  her  travelling  hat,  her  jersey  close  to  the 
throat,  tight  to  the  arms,  and  moulding  her  slender 
figure  of  perfect  elegance.  And  such  a  child ! 
Child  in  the  candour  of  her  laugh,  in  the  down 
upon  her  cheeks,  in  the  pretty  grace  with  whicli 
she  spread  her  shawl  upon  the  knees  of  her  poor 
brother,  "Are  you  comfortable?  .  ."  "You  are 
not  cold?"  How  could  any  one  suppose  that 
little  hand,  so  delicate  beneath  its  chamois  glove, 


The  Brmtig  Pass.  217 

had  had  the  physical  force  and  the  moral  courage 
to  kill  a  man? 

Nor  did  the  others  of  the  party  seem  ferocious : 
all  had  the  same  ingenuous  laugh,  rather  con- 
strained and  sad  on  the  drawn  lips  of  the  poor 
invalid,  and  noisy  in  Manilof,  who,  very  young 
behind  his  bushy  beard,  gave  way  to  explosions 
of  mirth  like  a  schoolboy  in  his  holidays,  bursts  of 
a  gayety  that  was  really  exuberant. 

The  third  companion,  whom  they  called  Boli- 
bine,  and  who  talked  on  the  box  with  the  tenor, 
amused  himself  much  and  was  constantly  turning 
back  to  translate  to  his  friends  the  Italian's  adven- 
tures, his  successes  at  the  Petersburg  Opera,  his 
bonnes  fortunes,  the  sleeve-buttons  the  ladies  had 
subscribed  to  present  to  him  on  his  departure,  ex- 
traordinary buttons,  with  three  notes  of  music  en- 
graved thereon,  la  do  r/  (I'ador^),  which  pro- 
fessional pun,  repeated  in  the  landau,  caused  such 
delight,  the  tenor  himself  swelling  up  with  pride 
and  twirling  his  moustache  with  so  silly  and  con- 
quering a  look  at  Sonia,  that  Tartarin  began  to 
ask  himself  whether,  after  all,  they  were  not  mere 
tourists,  and  he  a  genuine  tenor. 

Meantime  the  carriages,  going  at  a  good  pace, 
rolled  over  bridges,  skirted  little  lakes  and  flowery 
meads,  and  fine  vineyards  running  with  water  and 
deserted ;  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  all  the  peasants 
whom  they  met  wore  their  gala  costumes,  the 
women  with  long  braids  of  hair  hanging  down  their 
backs  and  silver  chainlets.  They  began  at  last  to 
mount  the  road  in  zigzags  among  forests  of  oak 


2i8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

and  beech ;  little  by  little  the  marvellous  horizon 
displayed  itself  on  the  left;  at  each  turn  of  the 
zigzag,  rivers,  valleys  with  their  spires  pointing 
upward  came  into  view,  and  far  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  hoary  head  of  the  Finsteraarhorn,  whiten- 
ing beneath  an  invisible  sun. 

Soon  the  road  became  gloomy,  the  aspect  sav- 
age. On  one  side,  heavy  shadows,  a  chaos  of 
trees,  twisted  and  gnarled  on  a  steep  slope,  down 
which  foamed  a  torrent  noisily ;  to  right,  an  enor- 
mous rock  overhanging  the  road  and  bristling 
with  branches  that  sprouted  from  its  fissures. 

They  laughed  no  more  in  the  landau ;  but  they 
all  admired,  raising  their  heads  and  trying  to  see 
the  summit  of  this  tunnel  of  granite. 

''  The  forests  of  Atlas !  .  .  I  seem  to  see  them 
again  ..."  said  Tartarin,  gravely,  and  then,  as  the 
remark  passed  unnoticed,  he  added  :  "  Without 
the  lion's  roar,  however." 

"  You  have  heard  it,  monsieur?"  asked  Sonia. 

Heard  the  lion,  he  !  .  .  Then,  with  an  indul- 
gent smile :  "  I  am  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  made- 
moiselle. .  ." 

And  just  see  what  such  barbarians  are  !  He  might 
have  said,*' My  name  is  Dupont;  "  it  would  have 
been  exactly  the  same  thing  to  them.  They  were 
ignorant  of  the  name  of  Tartarin  ! 

Nevertheless,  he  was  not  angry,  and  he  answered 
the  young  lady,  who  wished  to  know  if  the  lion's 
roar  had  frightened  him :  "  No,  mademoiselle.  .  . 
My  camel  trembled  between  my  legs,  but  I  looked 
to  my  priming  as  tranquilly  as  before  a  herd  of 


The  Brunig  Pass,  219 

cows.  .  .  At  a  distance  their  cry  is  much  the  same, 
like  this, ///" 

To  give  Sonia  an  exact  impression  of  the  thing, 
he  bellowed  in  his  most  sonorous  voice  a  formidable 
'*  Meuh  .  .  ."  which  swelled,  spread,  echoed  and  re- 
echoed against  the  rock.  The  horses  reared;  in 
all  the  carriages  the  travellers  sprang  up  alarmed, 
looking  round  for  the  accident,  the  cause  of  such  an 
uproar;  but  recognizing  the  Alpinist,  whose  head 
and  overwhelming  accoutrements  could  be  seen  in 
the  uncovered  half  of  the  landau,  they  asked  them- 
selves once  more  :   "  Who  is  that  animal?  " 

He,  very  calm,  continued  to  give  details  :  when 
to  attack  the  beast,  where  to  strike  him,  how  to 
despatch  him,  and  about  the  diamond  sight  he 
affixed  to  his  carbines  to  enable  him  to  aim  cor- 
rectly in  the  darkness.  The  young  girl  listened  to 
him,  leaning  forward  with  a  little  panting  of  the 
nostrils,  in  deep  attention. 

"  They  say  that  Bombonnel  still  hunts ;  do  you 
know  him?"  asked  the  brother. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tartarin,  without  enthusiasm.  .  . 
"  He  is  not  a  clumsy  fellow,  but  we  have  better 
than  he." 

A  word  to  the  wise  !  Then  in  a  melancholy  tone, 
*'  Pas  moitain,  they  give  us  strong  emotions,  these 
hunts  of  the  great  carnivora.  When  we  have  them 
no  longer  life  seems  empty ;  we  do  not  know  how 
to  fill  it." 

Here  Manilof,  who  understood  French  without 
speaking  it,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  to  Tartarin 
very  intently,  his  peasant  forehead  slashed  with 


2  20  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

the  wrinkle    of  a    great   scar,  said    a    few   words, 
laughing,  to  his  friends. 

"  Manilof  says  we  are  all  of  the  same  brother- 
hood," explained  Soniato  Tartarin.  .  .  "  We  hunt, 
like  you,  the  great  wild  beasts." 

**  T^ !  yes,  pardi  .  .  .  wolves,  white  bears.  .  ." 

'*  Yes,  wolves,  white  bears,  and  other  noxious 
animals.  .  ." 

And  the  laughing  began  again,  noisy,  intermi- 
nable, but  in  a  sharp,  ferocious  key  this  time, 
laughs  that  showed  their  teeth  and  reminded  Tar- 
tarin in  what  sad  and  singular  company  he  was, 
travelling. 

Suddenly  the  carriages  stopped.  The  road  be- 
came steeper  and  made  at  this  spot  a  long  circuit 
to  reach  the  top  of  the  Briinig  pass,  which  could 
also  be  reached  on  foot  in  twenty  minutes  less 
time  through  a  noble  forest  of  birches.  In  spite 
of  the  rain  in  the  morning,  making  the  earth  sod- 
den and  slippery,  the  tourists  nearly  all  left  the 
carriages  and  started,  single  file,  along  the  narrow 
path  called  a  schlittage. 

From  Tartarin's  landau,  the  last  in  line,  all  the 
men  got  out;  but  Sonia,  thinking  the  path  too 
muddy,  settled  herself  back  in  the  carriage,  and  as 
the  Alpinist  was  getting  out  with  the  rest,  a  little 
delayed  by  his  equipments,  she  said  to  him  in  a 
low  voice :  "  Stay !  keep  me  company.  .  .  "  in 
such  a  coaxing  way!  The  poor  man,  quite  over- 
come, began  immediately  to  forge  a  romance,  as 
delightful  as  it  was  improbable,  which  made  his 
old  heart  beat  and  throb. 


The  Briinig  Pass.  221 

He  was  quickly  undeceived  when  he  saw  the 
young  girl  leaning  anxiously  forward  to  watch 
Bolibine  and  the  Italian,  who  were  talking  eagerly 
together  at  the  opening  of  the  path,  Manilof  and 
Boris  having  already  gone  forward.  The  so-called 
tenor  hesitated.  An  instinct  seemed  to  warn  him 
not  to  risk  himself  alone  in  company  with  those 
three  men.  He  decided  at  last  to  go  on,  and 
Sonia  looked  at  him  as  he  mounted  the  path,  all  the 
while  stroking  her  cheek  with  a  bouquet  of  purple 
cyclamen,  those  mountain  violets,  the  leaf  of  which 
is  lined  with  the  same  fresh  colour  as  the  flowers. 

The  landau  proceeded  slowly.  The  driver  got 
down  tp  walk  in  front  with  other  comrades,  and 
the  convoy  of  more  than  fifteen  empty  vehicles, 
drawn  nearer  together  by  the  steepness  of  the  road, 
rolled  silently  along.  Tartarin,  greatly  agitated, 
and  foreboding  something  sinister,  dared  not  look 
at  his  companion,  so  much  did  he  fear  that  a  word 
or  a  look  might  compel  him  to  be  an  actor  in  the 
drama  he  felt  impending.  But  Sonia  was  paying 
no  attention  to  him ;  her  eyes  were  rather  fixed, 
and  she  did  not  cease  caressing  the  down  of  her 
skin  mechanically  with  the  flowers. 

"  So,"  she  said  at  length,  "  so  you  know  who  we 
are,  I  and  my  friends.  .  .  Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  us  ?     What  do  Frenchmen  think  of  us  ?  " 

The  hero  turned  pale,  then  red.  He  was  desir- 
ous of  not  offending  by  rash  or  imprudent  words 
such  vindictive  beings ;  on  the  other  hand,  how 
consort  with  murderers?  He  got  out  of  it  by  a 
metaphor :  — 


222  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

**  Differ emmenty  mademoiselle,  you  were  telling 
me  just  now  that  we  belonged  to  the  same  brother- 
hood, hunters  of  hydras  and  monsters,  despots  and 
carnivora.  .  .  It  is  therefore  to  a  companion  of  St. 
Hubert  that  I  now  make  answer.  .  .  My  sentiment 
is  that,  even  against  wild  beasts  we  should  use 
loyal  weapons.  .  .  Our  Jules  Gerard,  a  famous 
lion-slayer,  employed  explosive  balls.  I  myself 
have  never  given  in  to  that,  I  do  not  use  them.  .  . 
When  I  hunted  the  lion  or  the  panther  I  planted 
myself  before  the  beast,  face  to  face,  with  a  good 
double-barrelled  carbine,  and  pan !  pan !  a  ball  in, 
each  eye." 

"  In  each  eye  !  .  .  "  repeated  Sonia. 

**  Never  did  I  miss  my  aim." 

He  affirmed  it  and  he  beheved  it. 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  with  nai've  admira- 
tion, thinking  aloud :  — 

"  That  must  certainly  be  the  surest  way." 

A  sudden  rending  of  the  branches  and  the 
underbrush,  and  the  thicket  parted  above  them,  so 
quickly  and  in  so  feline  a  way  that  Tartarin,  his 
head  now  full  of  hunting  adventures,  might  have 
thought  himself  still  on  the  watch  in  the  Zaccar. 
But  Manilof  sprang  from  the  slope,  noiselessly,  and 
close  to  the  carriage.  His  small,  cunning  eyes 
were  shining  in  a  face  that  was  flayed  by  the 
briers ;  his  beard  and  his  long  lank  hair  were 
streaming  with  water  from  the  branches.  Breath- 
less, holding  with  his  coarse,  hairy  hands  to  the 
doorway,  he  spoke  in  Russian  to  Sonia,  who  turned 
instantly  to  Tartarin  and  said  in  a  curt  voice :  — 


TJie  Brunig  Pass.  223 

**  Your  rope.  .  .  quick.  .  ." 

"  My.  .  .  my  rope?  .  ."  stammered  the  hero. 

"  Quick,  quick.  .  .  you  shall  have  it  again  in  half 
an  hour." 

Offering  no  other  explanation,  she  helped  him 
with  her  little  gloved  hands  to  divest  himself  of  his 
famous  rope  made  in  Avignon.  Manilof  took  the 
coil,  grunting  with  joy ;  in  two  bounds  he  sprang, 
with  the  elasticity  of  a  wild-cat,  into  the  thicket 
and  disappeared. 

''What  has  happened?  What  are  they  going 
to  do?  .  .  He  looked  ferocious.  .  .  "  murmured  Tar- 
tarin,  not  daring  to  utter  his  whole  thought. 

Ferocious,  Manilof !  Ah!  how  plain  it  was  he 
did  not  know  him.  No  human  being  was  ever 
better,  gentler,  more  compassionate ;  and  to  show 
Tartarin  a  trait  of  that  exceptionally  kind  nature, 
Sonia,  with  her  clear,  blue  glance,  told  him  how 
her  friend,  having  executed  a  dangerous  mandate 
of  the  Revolutionary  Committee  and  jumped  into 
the  sledge  which  awaited  him  for  escape,  had 
threatened  the  driver  to  get  out,  cost  what  it  might, 
if  he  persisted  in  whipping  the  horse  whose  fleet- 
ness  alone  could  save  him. 

Tartarin  thought  the  act  worthy  of  antiquity. 
Then,  having  reflected  on  all  the  human  lives  sacri- 
ficed by  that  same  Manilof,  as  conscienceless  as  an 
earthquake  or  a  volcano  in  eruption,  who  yet  would 
not  let  others  hurt  an  animal  in  his  presence,  he 
questioned  the  young  girl  with  an  ingenuous  air :  — 

"  Were  there  many  killed  by  the  explosion  at 
the  Winter  Palace?" 


224  Tart  arm  07i  tJu  Alps, 

"Too  many,"  replied  Sonia,  sadly;  "and  the 
only  one  that  ought  to  have  died  escaped." 

She  remained  silent,  as  if  displeased,  looking  so 
pretty,  her  head  lowered,  with  her  long  auburn 
eyelashes  sweeping  her  pale  rose  cheeks.  Tartarin, 
angry  with  himself  for  having  pained  her,  was 
caught  once  more  by  that  charm  of  youth  and 
freshness  which  the  strange  little  creature  shed 
around  her. 

"  So,  monsieur,  the  war  that  we  are  making 
seems  to  you  unjust,  inhuman?"  She  said  it  quite 
close  to  him  in  a  caress,  as  it  were,  of  her  breath, 
and  her  eye ;   the  hero  felt  himself  weakening.  .  . 

**  You  do  not  see  that  all  means  are  good  and 
legitimate  to  deliver  a  people  who  groan  and  suffo- 
cate? .  ." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  .  ." 

The  young  girl,  growing  more  insistent  as  Tar- 
tarin weakened,  went  on  :  — 

"  You  spoke  just  now  of  a  void  to  be  filled ;  does 
it  not  seem  to  you  more  noble,  more  interesting  to 
risk  your  life  for  a  great  cause  than  to  risk  it  in 
slaying  lions  or  scaling  glaciers?" 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Tartarin,  intoxicated,  losing 
his  head  and  mad  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  take 
and  kiss  that  ardent,  persuasive  little  hand  which 
she  laid  upon  his  arm,  as  she  had  done  once  before, 
up  there,  on  the  Rigi  when  he  put  on  her  shoe. 
Finally,  unable  to  resist,  and  seizing  the  little 
gloved  hand  between  both  his  own, — 

"  Listen,  Sonia,"  he  said,  in  a  good  hearty  voice, 
paternal  and  familiar.  .  .     "  Listen,  Sonia.  .  ," 


The  Brilntg  Pass,  225 

A  sudden  stop  of  the  landau  interrupted  him. 
They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  Briinig ;  trav- 
ellers and  drivers  were  getting  into  their  carriages 
to  catch  up  lost  time  and  reach,  at  a  gallop,  the 
next  village  where  the  convoy  was  to  breakfast  and 
relay.  The  three  Russians  took  their  places,  but 
that  of  the  Italian  tenor  remained  unoccupied. 

"  That  gentleman  got  into  one  of  the  first  car- 
riages," said  Boris  to  the  driver,  who  asked  about 
him ;  then,  addressing  Tartarin,  whose  uneasiness 
was  visible :  — 

"We  must  ask  him  for  your  rope;  he  chose  to 
keep  it  with  him." 

Thereupon,  fresh  laughter  in  the  landau,  and 
the  resumption  for  poor  Tartarin  of  horrid  per- 
plexity, not  knowing  what  to  think  or  believe  in 
presence  of  the  good-humour  and  ingenuous  coun- 
tenances of  the  suspected  assassins.  Sonia,  while 
wrapping  up  her  invalid  in  cloaks  and  plaids,  for 
the  air  on  the  summit  was  all  the  keener  from  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  carriages  were  now  driven, 
related  in  Russian  her  conversation  with  Tartarin, 
uttering  his  pan !  pan !  with  a  pretty  intonation 
which  her  companions  repeated  after  her,  two  of 
them  admiring  the  hero,  while  Manilof  shook  his 
head  incredulously. 

The  relay ! 

This  was  on  the  market-place  of  a  large  village, 
at  an  old  tavern  with  a  worm-eaten  wooden  balcony, 
and  a  sign  hanging  to  a  rusty  iron  bracket.  The 
file  of  vehicles  stopped,  and  while  the  horses  were 
being    unharnessed   the   hungry   tourists  jumped 

IS 


226  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

hurriedly  down  and  rushed  into  a  room  on  the 
lower  floor,  painted  green  and  smelling  of  mildew, 
where  the  table  was  laid  for  twenty  guests.  Sixty 
had  arrived,  and  for  five  minutes  nothing  could  be 
heard  but  a  frightful  tumult,  cries,  and  a  vehement 
altercation  between  the  Rices  and  the  Prunes 
around  the  compote-dishes,  to  the  great  alarm  of 
the  tavern-keeper,  who  lost  his  head  (as  if  daily, 
at  the  same  hour,  the  same  post-carriages  did  not 
pass)  and  bustled  about  his  servants,  also  seized 
with  chronic  bewilderment  —  excellent  method  of 
serving  only  half  the  dishes  called  for  by  the  carter 
and  of  giving  change  in  a  way  that  made  the  white 
sous  of  Switzerland  count  for  fifty  centimes. 

"  Suppose  we  dine  in  the  carriage,"  said  Sonia, 
annoyed  by  such  confusion ;  and  as  no  one  had 
time  to  pay  attention  to  them  the  young  men 
themselves  did  the  waiting.  Manilof  returned 
with  a  cold  leg  of  mutton,  Bolibine  with  a  long 
loaf  of  bread  and  sausages ;  but  the  best  forager 
was  Tartarin.  Certainly  the  opportunity  to  get 
away  from  his  companions  in  the  bustle  of  relay- 
ing was  a  fine  one ;  he  might  at  least  have  as- 
sured himself  that  the  Italian  had  reappeared;  but 
he  never  once  thought  of  it,  being  solely  pre- 
occupied with  Sonia's  breakfast,  and  in  showing 
Manilof  and  the  others  how  a  Tarasconese  can 
manage  matters. 

When  he  stepped  down  the  portico  of  the  hotel, 
gravely,  with  fixed  eyes,  bearing  in  his  robust 
hands  a  large  tray  laden  with  plates,  napkins,  as- 
sorted  food,   and   Swiss   champagne    in   its   gilt- 


The  Brunig  Pass.  227 

necked  bottles,  Sonia  clapped  her  hands,  and 
congratulated  him. 

**  How  did  you  manage  it?"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  somehow,  t^ / ,  .  We  are  all 
like  that  in  Tarascon." 

Oh !  those  happy  minutes !  That  pleasant 
breakfast  opposite  to  Sonia,  almost  on  his  knees, 
the  village  market-place,  like  the  scene  of  an 
operetta,  with  clumps  of  green  trees,  beneath 
which  sparkled  the  gold  ornaments  and  the  muslin 
sleeves  of  the  Swiss  girls,  walking  about,  two  and 
two,  like  dolls ! 

How  good  the  bread  tasted !  what  savoury 
sausages !  The  heavens  themselves  took  part  in 
the  scene,  and  were  soft,  veiled,  clement;  it 
rained,  of  course,  but  so  gently,  the  drops  so  rare, 
though  just  enough  to  temper  the  Swiss  cham- 
pagne, always  dangerous  to  Southern  heads. 

Under  the  veranda  of  the  hotel,  a  Tyrolian  quar- 
tette, two  giants  and  two  female  dwarfs  in  resplend- 
ent and  heavy  rags,  looking  as  if  they  had  escaped 
from  the  failure  of  a  theatre  at  a  fair,  were  mingling 
their  throat  notes :  "  aou  .  . .  aou  .  .  ."  with  the 
clinking  of  plates  and  glasses.  They  were  ugly, 
stupid,  motionless,  straining  the  cords  of  their 
skinny  necks.  Tartarin  thought  them  delightful, 
and  gave  them  a  handful  of  sous,  to  the  great 
amazement  of  the  villagers  who  surrounded  the 
unhorsed  landau. 

"  Vife  la  Vranze ! "  quavered  a  voice  in  the 
crowd,  from  which  issued  a  tall  old  man,  clothed 
in  a  singular   blue  coat  with  silver  buttons,  the 


228  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

skirts  of  which  swept  the  ground  ;  on  his  head  was 
a  gigantic  shako,  in  form  hke  a  bucket  of  sauer- 
kraut, and  so  weighted  by  its  enormous  phime 
that  the  old  man  was  forced  to  balance  himself 
with  his  arms  as  he  walked,  like  an  acrobat. 

"  Old  soldier.  .  .     Charles  X.  .  ." 

Tartarin,  fresh  from  Bompard's  revelations, 
began  to  laugh,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  with  a 
wink  of  his  eye :  — 

"Up  to  that,  old  fellow.  .  ."  But  even  so,  he 
gave  him  a  white  sou  and  poured  him  out  a 
bumper,  which  the  old  man  accepted,  laughing, 
and  winking  himself,  though  without  knowing  why. 
Then,  dislodging  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth  an 
enormous  china  pipe,  he  raised  his  glass  and 
drank  '*  to  the  company,"  which  confirmed  Tar- 
tarin in  his  opinion  that  here  was  a  colleague  of 
Bompard. 

No  matter !  one  toast  deserved  another.  So, 
standing  up  in  the  carriage,  his  glass  held  high, 
his  voice  strong,  Tartarin  brought  tears  to  his  eyes 
by  drinking,  first:  To  France,  my  country  !  .  .  next 
to  hospitable  Switzerland,  which  he  was  happy  to 
honour  publicly  and  thank  for  the  generous  wel- 
come she  affords  to  the  vanquished,  to  the  exiled 
of  all  lands.  Then,  lowering  his  voice  and  incHn- 
ing  his  glass  to  the  companions  of  his  journey,  he 
wished  them  a  quick  return  to  their  country,  res- 
toration to  their  family,  safe  friends,  honourable 
careers,  and  an  end  to  all  dissensions ;  for,  he  said, 
it  is  impossible  to  spend  one's  life  in  eating  each 
other  up. 


The  Briinig  Pass,  229 

During  the  utterance  of  this  toast  Sonia's  brother 
smiled,  cold  and  sarcastic  behind  his  blue  spec- 
tacles ;  Manilof,  his  neck  pushed  forth,  his  swollen 
eyebrows  emphasizing  his  wrinkle,  seemed  to  be 
asking  himself  if  that  "  big  barrel "  would  soon  be 
done  with  his  gabble,  while  Bolibine,  perched  on 
the  box,  was  twisting  his  comical  yellow  face, 
wrinkled  as  a  Barbary  ape,  till  he  looked  like  one 
of  those  villanous  little  monkeys  squatting  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  Alpinist. 

The  young  girl  alone  listened  to  him  very 
seriously,  striving  to  comprehend  such  a  singular 
type  of  man.  Did  he  think  all  that  he  said?  Had 
he  done  all  that  he  related?  Was  he  a  madman,  a 
comedian,  or  simply  a  gabbler,  as  Manilof  in  his 
quality  of  man  of  action  insisted,  giving  to  the 
word  a  most  contemptuous  signification. 

The  answer  was  given  at  once.  His  toast  ended, 
Tartarin  had  just  sat  down  when  a  sudden  shot,  a 
second,  then  a  third,  fired  close  to  the  tavern, 
brought  him  again  to  his  feet,  ears  straining  and 
nostrils  scenting  powder. 

"Who  fired?  .  .  where  is  it?  .  .  what  is  hap- 
pening? .  ." 

In  his  inventive  noddle  a  whole  drama  was 
already  defiling ;  attack  on  the  convoy  by  armed 
bands;  opportunity  given  him  to  defend  the 
honour  and  life  of  that  charming  young  lady.  But 
no !  the  discharges  only  came  from  the  Stand, 
where  the  youths  of  the  village  practise  at  a  mark 
every  Sunday.  As  the  horses  were  not  yet  har- 
nessed, Tartarin,  as  if  carelessly,  proposed  to  go  and 


230  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

look  at  them.  He  had  his  idea,  and  Sonia  had 
hers  in  accepting  the  proposal.  Guided  by  the  old 
soldier  of  Charles  X.  wobbling  under  his  shako, 
they  crossed  the  market-place,  opening  the  ranks 
of  the  crowd,  who  followed  them  with  curiosity. 

Beneath  its  thatched  roof  and  its  square  uprights 
of  pine  wood  the  Stand  resembled  one  of  our  own 
pistol-galleries  at  a  fair,  with  this  difference,  that 
the  amateurs  brought  their  own  weapons,  breech- 
loading  muskets  of  the  oldest  pattern,  which  they 
managed,  however,  with  some  adroitness.  Tar- 
tarin, his  arms  crossed,  observed  the  shots, 
criticised  them  aloud,  gave  his  advice,  but  did  not 
fire  himself.  The  Russians  watched  him,  making 
signs  to  each  other. 

"  Pan !  .  .  pan !  .  .  "  sneered  Bolibine,  making 
the  gesture  of  taking  aim  and  mimicking  Tartarin's 
accent.  Tartarin  turned  round  very  red,  and  swell- 
ing with  anger. 

**  Parfaitemain,  young  man.  .  .  Pan !  .  .  pan !  .  . 
and  as  often  as  you  like." 

The  time  to  load  an  old  double-barrelled  car- 
bine which  must  have  served  several  generations 
of  chamois  hunters,  and — pan!  .  .  pan  !  .  .  *Tis 
done.  Both  balls  are  in  the  bull's-eye.  Hurrahs 
of  admiration  burst  forth  on  all  sides.  Sonia 
triumphed.     Bolibine  laughed  no  more. 

''But  that  is  nothing,  that!"  said  Tartarin; 
"  you  shall  see.  .  ." 

The  Stand  did  not  suffice  him;  he  looked  about 
for  another  target,  and  the  crowd  recoiled  alarmed 
from  this  strange  Alpinist,  thick-set,  savage-look- 


The  Brunig  Pass  231 

ing  and  carbine  in  hand,  when  they  heard  him 
propose  to  the  old  guard  of  Charles  X.  to  break 
his  pipe  between  his  teeth  at  fifty  paces.  The  old 
fellow  howled  in  terror  and  plunged  into  the  crowd, 
his  trembling  plume  remaining  visible  above  their 
serried  heads.  None  the  less,  Tartarin  felt  that  he 
must  put  it  somewhere,  that  ball.  "  TV/  pardi  !  as 
we  did  at  Tarascon !  .  ."  And  the  former  cap- 
hunter  pitched  his  headgear  high  into  the  air  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  double  muscles,  shot  it  on  the  fly, 
and  pierced  it.  "  Bravo !  "  cried  Sonia,  sticking 
into  the  small  hole  made  by  the  ball  the  bouquet 
of  cyclamen  with  which  she  had  stroked  her  cheek. 

With  that  charming  trophy  in  his  cap  Tartarin 
returned  to  the  landau.  The  trumpet  sounded,  the 
convoy  started,  the  horses  went  rapidly  down  to 
Brienz  along  that  marvellous  corniche  road,  blasted 
in  the  side  of  the  rock,  separated  from  an  abyss  of 
over  a  thousand  feet  by  single  stones  a  couple  of 
yards  apart.  But  Tartarin  was  no  longer  conscious 
of  danger;  no  longer  did  he  look  at  the  scenery  — 
that  Meyringen  valley,  seen  through  a  light  veil  of 
mist,  with  its  river  in  straight  lines,  the  lake,  the 
villages  massing  themselves  in  the  distance,  and 
that  whole  horizon  of  mountains,  of  glaciers,  blend- 
ing at  times  with  the  clouds,  displaced  by  the  turns 
of  the  road,  lost  apparently,  and  then  returning, 
like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  stage. 

Softened  by  tender  thoughts,  the  hero  admired 
the  sweet  child  before  him,  reflecting  that  glory  is 
only  a  semi-happiness,  that  'tis  sad  to  grow  old  all 
alone  in  your  greatness,  like  Moses,  and  that  this 


232  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

fragile  flower  of  the  North  transplanted  into  the 
little  garden  at  Tarascon  would  brighten  its  monot- 
ony, and  be  sweeter  to  see  and  breathe  than  that 
everlasting  baobab,  arbos  gigUTitea,  diminutively 
confined  in  the  mignonette  pot.  With  her  child- 
like eyes,  and  her  broad  brow,  thoughtful  and 
self-willed,  Sonia  looked  at  him,  and  she,  too, 
dreamed  —  but  who  knows  what  the  young  girls 
dream  of? 


The  Nights  at  Tarascon,  233 


VII. 

The  nights  at  Tarascon.  Where  is  he?  Anxiety.  The 
grasshoppers  on  the  promenade  call  for  Tartarin.  Martyr- 
dotn  of  a  great  Tarasconese  saint.  The  Club  of  the  A  Ipines. 
What  was  happening  at  the  pharmacy.  '•'•  Help  J  help! 
Bhuquet!'' 

"A  LETTER,  Monsieur  Bezuquet!  .  .  Comes 
from  Switzerland,  ve!  .  .  Switzerland !  "  cried  the 
postman  joyously,  from  the  other  end  of  the  little 
square,  waving  something  in  the  air,  and  hurrying 
along  in  the  coming  darkness. 

The  apothecary,  who  took  the  air,  as  they  say, 
of  an  evening  before  his  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
gave  a  jump,  seized  the  letter  with  feverish  hands 
and  carried  it  into  his  lair  among  the  varied  odours 
of  elixirs  and  dried  herbs,  but  did  not  open  it  till 
the  postman  had  departed,  refreshed  by  a  glass  of 
that  delicious  sirop  de  cadavre  in  recompense  for 
what  he  brought. 

Fifteen  days  had  B6zuquet  expected  it,  this 
letter  from  Switzerland,  fifteen  days  of  agonized 
watching !  And  here  it  was.  Merely  from  look- 
ing at  the  cramped  and  resolute  little  writing  on  the 
envelope,  the  postmark  "  Interlaken "  and  the 
broad  purple  stamp  of  the  "  Hotel  Jungfrau,  kept 
by  Meyer,"  the  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  the  heavy 


234  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

moustache  of  the  Barbary  corsair  through  which 
whispered  softly  the  idle  whistle  of  a  kindly  soul, 
quivered. 

''  Confidential.  Destroy  when  read,'' 
Those  words,  written  large  at  the  head  of  the 
page,  in  the  telegraphic  style  of  the  pharma- 
copoeia ("external  use;  shake  before  using") 
troubled  him  to  the  point  of  making  him  read 
aloud,  as  one  does  in  a  bad  dream: 

"  Fcarfnl  things  are  happejzing  to  me.  .  ." 
In  the  salon  beside  the  pharmacy  where  she  was 
taking  her  little  nap  after  supper,  Mme.  Bezuquet, 
mkre,  might  hear  him,  or  the  pupil  whose  pestle 
was  pounding  its  regular  blows  in  the  big  marble 
mortar  of  the  laboratory.  Bezuquet  continued  his 
reading  in  a  low  voice,  beginning  it  over  again  two 
or  three  times,  very  pale,  his  hair  literally  standing 
on  end.  Then,  with  a  rapid  look  about  him,  era 
era.  .  .  and  the  letter  in  a  thousand  scraps  went  into 
the  waste-paper  basket;  but  there  it  might  be 
found,  and  pieced  together,  and  as  he  was  stoop- 
ing to  gather  up  the  fragments  a  quavering  voice 
called  to  him : 

'*  Ve  !  Ferdinand,  are  you  there?  " 
"Yes,    mamma,"    replied   the    unlucky   corsair, 
curdling  with  fear,  the  whole  of  his  long  body  on 
its  hands  and  knees  beneath  the  desk. 
"  What  are  you  doing,  my  treasure?  " 
"  I  am.  .  .  h'm,  I  am  making  Mile.  Tournatoire's 
eye-salve." 

Mamma  went  to  sleep  again,  the  pupil's  pestle, 
suspended  for  a  moment,  began  once  more  its  slow 


The  Nights  at  Tarascon.  235 

clock  movement,  while  Bezuquet  walked  up  and 
down  before  his  door  in  the  deserted  little  square, 
turning  pink  or  green  according  as  he  passed 
before  one  or  other  of  his  bottles.  From  time 
to  time  he  threw  up  his  arms,  uttering  disjointed 
words :  "  Unhappy  man  !  .  .  lost.  .  .  fatal  love.  .  . 
how  can  we  extricate  him?  "  and,  in  spite  of  his 
trouble  of  mind,  accompanying  with  a  lively  whistle 
the  bugle  "taps"  of  a  dragoon  regiment  echoing 
among  the  plane-trees  of  the  Tour  de  Ville. 

"  H^ !  good  night,  Bezuquet,"  said  a  shadow 
hurrying  along  in  the  ash-coloured  twilight. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Pegoulade?  " 

"  To  the  Club,  pardi  !  .  .  Night  session.  .  .  they 
are  going  to  discuss  Tartarin  and  the  presidency. .  . 
You  ought  to  come." 

"  T^!  yes,  I  '11  come  ..."  said  the  apothecary 
vehemently,  a  providential  idea  darting  through  his 
mind.  He  went  in,  put  on  his  frock-coat,  felt  in 
its  pocket  to  assure  himself  that  his  latchkey  was 
there,  and  also  the  American  tomahawk,  without 
which  no  Tarasconese  whatsoever  would  risk  him- 
self in  the  streets  after  "  taps. "  Then  he  called  : 
"  Pascalon  !  . .  Pascalon  !  .  ."  but  not  too  loudly,  for 
fear  of  waking  the  old  lady. 

Almost  a  child,  though  bald,  wearing  all  his  hair 
in  his  curly  blond  beard,  Pascalon  the  pupil  had  the 
ardent  soul  of  a  partizan,  a  dome-like  forehead,  the 
eyes  of  crazy  goat,  and  on  his  chubby  cheeks  the 
delicate  tints  of  a  shiny  crusty  Beaucaire  roll.  On 
all  the  grand  Alpine  excursions  it  was  to  him  that 
the  Club   entrusted   its   banner,  and   his  childish 


236  Tar  tar  in  07t  the  Alps, 

soul  had  vowed  to  the  P.  C.  A.  a  fanatical  wor- 
ship, the  burning,  silent  adoration  of  a  taper  con- 
suming itself  before  an  altar  in  the  Easter  season. 

*'  Pascalon,"  said  the  apothecary  in  a  low  voice, 
and  so  close  to  him  that  the  bristle  of  his  moustache 
pricked  his  ear.  "  I  have  news  of  Tartarin.  .  .  It  is 
heart-breaking.  .  ." 

Seeing  him  turn  pale,  he  added : 

"  Courage,  child !  all  can  be  repaired.  .  .  Dif- 
feremment  I  confide  to  you  the  pharmacy.  .  .  If  any 
one  asks  you  for  arsenic,  don't  give  it ;  opium,  don't 
give  that  either,  nor  rhubarb.  .  .  don't  give  any- 
thing. If  I  am  not  in  by  ten  o'clock,  lock  the  door 
and  go  to  bed." 

With  intrepid  step,  he  plunged  into  the  dark- 
ness, not  once  looking  back,  which  allowed  Pasca- 
lon to  spring  at  the  waste-paper  basket,  turn  it  over 
and  over  with  feverish  eager  hands  and  finally  tip 
out  its  contents  on  the  leather  of  the  desk  to  see  if 
no  scrap  remained  of  the  mysterious  letter  brought 
by  the  postman. 

To  those  who  know  Tarasconese  excitability,  it 
is  easy  to  imagine  the  frantic  condition  of  the  little 
town  after  Tartarin's  abrupt  disappearance.  Et 
autrement^  pas  moins,  differemment ^  they  lost  their 
heads,  all  the  more  because  it  was  the  middle  of 
August  and  their  brains  boiled  in  the  sun  till  their 
skulls  were  fit  to  crack.  From  morning  till  night 
they  talked  of  nothing  else;  that  one  name 
"  Tartarin  "  alone  was  heard  on  the  pinched  lips  of 
the  elderly  ladies  in  hoods,  in  the  rosy  mouths  of 
grisettes,  their  hair  tied  up  with  velvet  ribbons: 


The  Nights  at  Tar  as  con,  237 

"  Tartarin,  Tartarin.  .  ."  Even  among  the  plane- 
trees  on  the  Promenade,  heavy  with  white  dust,  dis- 
tracted grasshoppers,  vibrating  in  the  sunlight, 
seemed  to  strangle  with  those  two  sonorous  syl- 
lables :   "  Tar  .  .  tar  .  .  tar  .  .  tar  .  .  tar .  .  ." 

As  no  one  knew  anything,  naturally  every  one 
was  well-informed  and  gave  explanations  of  the 
departure  of  the  president.  Extravagant  versions 
appeared.  According  to  some,  he  had  entered 
La  Trappe  ;  he  had  eloped  with  the  Dugazon ; 
others  declared  he  had  gone  to  the  Isles  to  found 
a  colony  to  be  called  Port-Tarascon,  or  else  to 
roam  Central  Africa  in  search  of  Livingstone. 

''  Ah  !  vai!  Livingstone  !  .  .  Why  he  has  been 
dead  these  two  years." 

But  Tarasconese  imagination  defies  all  hints  of 
time  and  space.  And  the  curious  thing  is  that 
these  ideas  of  La  Trappe,  colonization,  distant 
travel,  were  Tartarin's  own  ideas,  dreams  of  that 
sleeper  awake,  communicated  in  past  days  to  his 
intimate  friends,  who  now,  not  knowing  what  to 
think,  and  vexed  in  their  hearts  at  not  being  duly 
informed,  affected  toward  the  public  the  greatest 
reserve  and  behaved  to  one  another  with  a  sly 
air  of  private  understanding.  Excourbanies  sus- 
pected Bravida  of  being  in  the  secret;  Bravida, 
on  his  side,  thought :  "  Bezuquet  knows  the  truth ; 
he  looks  about  him  like  a  dog  with  a  bone." 

True  it  was  that  the  apothecary  suffered  a 
thousand  deaths  from  this  hair-shirt  of  a  secret, 
which  cut  him,  skinned  him,  turned  him  pale  and 
red  in  the  same  minute  and  caused  him  to  squint 


238  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

continually.  Remember  that  he  belonged  to 
Tarascon,  unfortunate  man,  and  say  if,  in  all 
martyrology,  you  can  find  so  terrible  a  torture  as 
this  —  the  torture  of  Saint  Bezuquet,  who  knew 
a  secret  and  could  not  tell  it. 

This  is  why,  on  that  particular  evening,  in  spite 
of  the  terrifying  news  he  had  just  received,  his  step 
had  something,  I  hardly  know  what,  freer,  more 
buoyant,  as  he  went  to  the  session  of  the  Club. 
Enfin!  .  .  He  was  now  to  speak,  to  unbosom 
himself,  to  tell  that  which  weighed  so  heavily 
lipon  him ;  and  in  his  haste  to  unload  his  breast 
he  cast  a  few  half  words  as  he  went  along  to  the 
loiterers  on  the  Promenade.  The  day  had  been 
so  hot,  that  in  spite  of  the  unusual  hour  {a  quarter 
to  eight  on  the  clock  of  the  town  hall !)  and  the  terri- 
fying darkness,  quite  a  crowd  of  reckless  persons, 
bourgeois  families  getting  the  good  of  the  air  while 
that  of  their  houses  evaporated,  bands  of  five  or 
six  sewing-women,  rambling  along  in  an  undulat- 
ing line  of  chatter  and  laughter,  were  abroad. 
In  every  group  they  were  talking  of  Tartarin. 

"  Et  aiitrement,  Monsieur  Bezuquet,  still  no 
letter?"  they  asked  of  the  apothecary,  stopping 
him  on  his  way. 

*'  Yes,  yes,  my  friends,  yes,  there  is  .  .  .  Read 
the  Forum  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  " 

He  hastened  his  steps,  but  they  followed  him, 
fastened  on  him,  and  along  the  Promenade  rose 
a  murmuring  sound,  the  bleating  of  a  flock,  which 
gathered  beneath  the  windows  of  the  Club,  left 
wide  open  in  great  squares  of  light. 


The  Nights  at  Tarascon,  239 

The  sessions  were  held  in  the  bouiUotte  room, 
where  the  long  table  covered  with  green  cloth 
served  as  a  desk.  At  the  centre,  the  presidential 
arm-chair,  with  P.  C.  A.  embroidered  on  the  back 
of  it;  at  one  end,  humbly,  the  armless  chair  of  the 
secretary.  Behind,  the  banner  of  the  Club,  draped 
above  a  long  glazed  map  in  relief,  on  which  the 
Alpines  stood  up  with  their  respective  names 
and  altitudes.  Alpenstocks  of  honour,  inlaid 
with  ivory,  stacked  like  billiard  cues,  ornamented 
the  corners,  and  a  glass-case  displayed  curiosities, 
crystals,  silex,  petrifactions,  two  porcupines  and 
a  salamander,  collected  on  the  mountains. 

In  Tartarin's  absence,  Costecalde,  rejuvenated 
and  radiant,  occupied  the  presidential  arm-chair ; 
the  armless  chair  was  for  Excourbanies,  who 
fulfilled  the  functions  of  secretary;  but  that  devil 
of  a  man,  frizzled,  hairy,  bearded,  was  incessantly 
in  need  of  noise,  motion,  activity  which  hindered 
his  sedentary  employments.  At  the  smallest 
pretext,  he  threw  out  his  arms  and  legs,  uttered 
fearful  howls  and  "  Ha  !  ha !  has  !  "  of  ferocious, 
exuberant  joy  which  always  ended  with  a  war-cry 
in  the  Tarasconese  patois :  "  Fen  d^  brut  ...  let 
us  make  a  noise  "...  He  was  called  "  the  gong  " 
on  account  of  his  metallic  voice,  which  cracked  the 
ears  of  his  friends  with  its  ceaseless  explosions. 

Here  and  there,  on  a  horsehair  divan  that  ran 
round  the  room  were  the  members  of  the  com- 
mittee. 

In  the  first  row,  sat  the  former  captain  of 
equipment,  Bravida,  whom  all  Tarascon  called  the 


240  Tart  arm  07i  the  Alps. 

Commander ;  a  very  small  man,  clean  as  a  new 
penny,  who  redeemed  his  childish  figure  by 
making  himself  as  moustached  and  savage  a 
head  as  Vercingetorix. 

Next  came  the  long,  hollow,  sickly  face  of 
Pegoulade,  the  collector,  last  survivor  of  the  wreck 
of  the  "  Medusa."  Within  the  memory  of  man, 
Tarascon  has  never  been  without  a  last  survivor 
of  the  wreck  of  the  *'  Medusa."  At  one  time 
they  even  numbered  three,  who  treated  one 
another  mutually  as  impostors,  and  never  con- 
sented to  meet  in  the  same  room.  Of  these 
three  the  only  true  one  was  Pegoulade.  Setting 
sail  with  his  parents  on  the  *'  Medusa,"  he  met 
with  the  fatal  disaster  when  six  months  old, — 
which  did  not  prevent  him  from  relating  the  event, 
de  visUy  in  its  smallest  details,  famine,  boats,  raft, 
and  how  he  had  taken  the  captain,  who  was  sel- 
fishly saving  himself,  by  the  throat :  *'  To  your 
duty,  wretch  !  .  .  "  At  six  months  old,  outre!  .  .  . 
Wearisome,  to  tell  the  truth,  with  that  eternal  tale 
which  everybody  was  sick  of  for  the  last  fifty 
years ;  but  he  took  it  as  a  pretext  to  assume  a 
melancholy  air,  detached  from  life :  "  After  what 
I  have  seen !  "  he  would  say  —  very  unjustly, 
because  it  was  to  that  he  owed  his  post  as 
collector  and  kept  it  under  all  administrations. 

Near  him  sat  the  brothers  Rognonas,  twins  and 
sexagenarians,  who  never  parted,  but  always  quar- 
relled and  said  the  most  monstrous  things  to  each 
other;  their  two  old  heads,  defaced,  corroded, 
irregular,  and  ever  looking  in  opposite  directions 


The  Nights  at  Tar  as  con,  241 

out  of  antipathy,  were  so  alike  that  they  might 
have  figured  in  a  collection  of  coins  with  lANVS 
BIFRONS  on  the  exergue. 

Here  and  there,  were  Judge  Bedaride,  Barjavel 
the  lawyer,  the  notary  Cambalalette,  and  the  ter- 
rible Doctor  Tournatoire,  of  whom  Bravida  re- 
marked that  he  could  draw  blood  from  a  radish. 

In  consequence  of  the  great  heat,  increased  by 
the  gas,  these  gentlemen  held  the  session  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  which  detracted  much  from  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion.  It  is  true  that  the 
meeting  was  a  very  small  one ;  and  the  infamous 
Costecalde  was  anxious  to  profit  by  that  circum- 
stance to  fix  the  earliest  possible  date  for  the 
elections  without  awaiting  Tartarin's  return.  Con- 
fident in  this  manoeuvre,  he  was  enjoying  his  tri- 
umph in  advance,  and  when,  after  the  reading  of  the 
minutes  by  Excourbanies,  he  rose  to  insinuate  his 
scheme,  an  infernal  smile  curled  up  the  corners  of 
his  thin  lips. 

"  Distrust  the  man  who  smiles  before  he  speaks," 
murmured  the  Commander. 

Costecalde,  not  flinching,  and  winking  with  one 
eye  at  the  faithful  Tournatoire,  began  in  a  spiteful 
voice:  — 

"  Gentlemen,  the  extraordinary  conduct  of  our 
president,  the  uncertainty  in  which  he  leaves 
us.  .  ." 

"  False !  .  .  The  president  has  written.  .  ." 

Bezuquet,  quivering,  planted  himself  squarely 
before  the  table ;  but  conscious  that  his  attitude 
was  anti-parliamentary,  he  changed  his  tone,  and, 

16 


242  Tartarin  07i  the  Alps. 

raising  one  hand  according  to  usage,  he  asked  for 
the  floor,  to  make  an  urgent  communication. 

"Speak!  Speak!" 

Costecalde,  very  yellow,  his  throat  tightened, 
gave  him  the  floor  by  a  motion  of  his  head.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  Bezuquet  spoke : 

"Tartarin  is  at  the  foot  of  the  Jungfrau  ...  he 
is  about  to  make  the  ascent  ...  he  desires  to  take 
with  him  our  banner.  .  ." 

Silence;  broken  by  the  heavy  breathing  of 
chests ;  then  a  loud  hurrah,  bravos,  stamping  of 
the  feet,  above  which  rose  the  gong  of  Excourbanies 
uttering  his  war-cry  "  Ha !  ha  1  ha  !  fefi  de  brut!  " 
to  which  the  anxious  crowd  without  responded. 

Costecalde,  getting  more  and  more  yellow,  tinkled 
the  presidential  bell  desperately.  Bezuquet  at  last 
was  allowed  to  continue,  mopping  his  forehead  and 
puffing  as  if  he  had  just  mounted  five  pairs  of 
stairs. 

Differemmenty  the  banner  that  their  president 
requested  in  order  to  plant  it  on  virgin  heights, 
should  it  be  wrapped  up,  packed  up,  and  sent  by 
express  like  an  ordinary  trunk?  .  . 

"  Never  I  .  .  Ah  I  ah  1  ah  1  .  ."  roared  Excour- 
banies. 

Would  it  not  be  better  to  appoint  a  delegation — • 
draw  lots  for  three  members  of  the  committee?  .  . 

He  was  not  allowed  to  finish.  The  time  to  say 
zou!  and  Bezuquet's  proposition  was  voted  by 
acclamation,  and  the  names  of  three  delegates  drawn 
in  the  following  order:  i,  Bravida;  2,  Pegoulade; 
3,  the  apothecary. 


The  Nights  at  Tarascon.  243 

No.  2,  protested.  The  long  journey  frightened 
him,  so  feeble  and  ill  as  he  was,  p^chkre!  ever 
since  that  terrible  event  of  the  **  Medusa." 

**  I  '11  go  for  you,  Pegoulade,"  roared  Excour- 
banies,  telegraphing  with  all  his  limbs.  As  for 
Bezuquet,  he  could  not  leave  the  pharmacy,  the 
safety  of  the  town  depended  on  him.  One  impru- 
dence of  the  pupil,  and  all  Tarascon  might  be 
poisoned,  decimated  : 

"  Outre  !  "  cried  the  whole  committee,  agreeing 
as  one  man. 

Certainly  the  apothecary  could  not  go  himself, 
but  he  could  send  Pascalon ;  Pascalon  could 
take  charge  of  the  banner.  That  was  his  busi- 
ness. Thereupon,  fresh  exclamations,  further  ex- 
plosions of  the  gong,  and  on  the  Promenade 
such  a  popular  tempest  that  Excourbanies  was 
forced  to  show  himself  and  address  the  crowd 
above  its  roarings,  which  his  matchless  voice  soon 
mastered. 

**  My  friends,  Tartarin  is  found.  He  is  about  to 
cover  himself  with  glory." 

Without  adding  more  than  **  Vive  Tartarin !  " 
and  his  war-cry,  given  with  all  the  force  of  his 
lungs,  he  stood  for  a  moment  enjoying  the  tre- 
mendous clamour  of  the  crowd  below,  rolling  and 
hustling  confusedly  in  clouds  of  dust,  while  from 
the  branches  of  the  trees  the  grasshoppers  added 
their  queer  little  rattle  as  if  it  were  broad  day. 

Hearing  all  this,  Costecalde,  who  had  gone  to  a 
window  with  the  rest,  returned,  staggering,  to  his 
arm-chair. 


244  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

"  Ve !  Costecalde,"  said  some  one.  ''What's  the 
matter  with  him  ?  .  .  Look  how  yellow  he  is  ! " 

They  sprang  to  him;  already  the  terrible 
Tournatoire  had  whipped  out  his  lancet:  but  the 
gunsmith,  writhing  in  distress,  made  a  horrible 
grimace,  and  said  ingenuously: 

"  Nothing  .  .  .  nothing  ...  let  me  alone  ...  I 
know  what  it  is  ...  it  is  envy." 

Poor  Costecalde,  he  seemed  to  suffer  much. 

While  these  things  were  happening,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  Tour  de  Ville,  in  the  pharmacy,  Be- 
zuquet's  pupil,  seated  before  his  masters  desk,  was 
patiently  patching  and  gumming  together  the 
fragments  of  Tartarin's  letter  overlooked  by  the 
apothecary  at  the  bottom  of  the  basket.  But 
numerous  bits  were  lacking  in  the  reconstruction, 
for  here  is  the  singular  and  sinister  enigma  spread 
out  before  him,  not  unlike  a  map  of  Central  Africa, 
with  voids  and  spaces  of  terra  incognita,  which  the 
artless  standard-bearer  explored  in  a  state  of  terri- 
fied imagination : 

mad  with  love 
reed-wick  lam  preserves  of  Chicago, 

cannot  tear  myself  Nihilist 

to  death  condition  abom  in  exchange 

for  her  You  know  me,  Ferdi 

know  my  liberal  ideas, 
but  from  there  to  tzaricide 

rrible  consequences 
Siberia  hung  adore  her 

Ah  I  press  thy  loyal  hand 

Tar  Tar 


Memorable  Dialogue,  245 


VIII. 

Memorable  dialogue  between  the  Jungfrau  and  Tartarin. 
A  7iihilist  salon.  The  duel  with  hunting-knives.  Fright- 
ful nightmare.  ^'- Is  it  I  you  are  seeking^  messieurs  f"* 
Strange  reception  given  by  the  hotel-keeper  Meyer  to  the 
Tarasconese  delegation. 

Like  all  the  other  choice  hotels  at  Interlaken, 
the  Hotel  Jungfrau,  kept  by  Meyer,  is  situated 
on  the  Hoheweg,  a  wide  promenade  between  double 
rows  of  chestnut-trees  that  vaguely  reminded  Tar- 
tarin of  the  beloved  Tour  de  Ville  of  his  native 
town,  minus  the  sun,  the  grasshoppers,  and  the 
dust;  for  during  his  week's  sojourn  at  Interlaken 
the  rain  had  never  ceased  to  fall. 

He  occupied  a  very  fine  chamber  with  a  bal- 
cony on  the  first  floor,  and  trimmed  his  beard 
in  the  morning  before  a  little  hand-glass  hanging 
to  the  window,  an  old  habit  of  his  when  travelling. 
The  first  object  that  daily  struck  his  eyes  beyond 
the  fields  of  grass  and  corn,  the  nursery  gardens, 
and  an  amphitheatre  of  solemn  verdure  in  rising 
stages,  was  the  Jungfrau,  lifting  from  the  clouds 
her  summit,  like  a  horn,  white  and  pure  with  un- 
broken snow,  to  which  was  daily  clinging  a  furtive 
ray  of  the  still  invisible  rising  sun.  Then  between 
the  white  and  rosy  Alp  and  the  Alpinist  a  little 


246  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

dialogue  took  place  regularly,  which  was  not  with- 
out its  grandeur. 

"Tartarin,  are  you  coming?"  asked  the  Jung- 
frau  sternly. 

"  Here,  here.  .  ."  replied  the  hero,  his  thumb 
under  his  nose  and  finishing  his  beard  as  fast  as 
possible.  Then  he  would  hastily  take  down  his 
ascensionist  outfit  and,  swearing  at  himself,  put  it 
on. 

"  Coquin  de  sort !  there 's  no  name  for  it.  .  ." 

But  a  soft  voice  rose,  demure  and  clear  among 
the  myrtles  in  the  border  beneath  his  window. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Sonia,  as  he  appeared 
upon  the  balcony,  '*  the  landau  is  ready.  .  .  Come, 
make  haste,  lazy  man.  .  ." 

"■  I  'm  coming,  I  'm  coming.  .  ." 

In  a  trice  he  had  changed  his  thick  flannel  shirt 
for  linen  of  the  finest  quality,  his  mountain  knick- 
erbockers for  a  suit  of  serpent-green  that  turned 
the  heads  of  all  the  women  in  Tarascon  at  the 
Sunday  concerts. 

The  horses  of  the  landau  were  pawing  before 
the  door ;  Sonia  was  already  installed  beside  Boris, 
paler,  more  emaciated  day  by  day  in  spite  of  the 
beneficent  climate  of  Interlaken.  But,  regularly, 
at  the  moment  of  starting,  Tartarin  was  fated  to 
see  two  forms  arise  from  a  bench  on  the  prom- 
enade and  approach  him  with  the  heavy  rolling 
step  of  mountain  bears;  these  were  Rodolphe 
Kaufmann  and  Christian  Inebnit,  two  famous 
Grindelwald  guides,  engaged  by  Tartarin  for  the 
ascension  of  the  Jungfrau,  who  came  every  morn- 


Memorable  Dialogue,  247 

ing  to  ascertain  if  their  monsieur  were  ready  to 
start. 

The  apparition  of  these  two  men,  in  their  iron- 
clamped  shoes  and  fustian  jackets  worn  threadbare 
on  the  back  and  shoulder  by  knapsacks  and  ropes, 
their  naive  and  serious  faces,  and  the  four  words 
of  French  which  they  managed  to  splutter  as  they 
twisted  their  broad-brimmed  hats,  were  a  positive 
torture  to  Tartarin.  In  vain  he  said  to  them: 
"  Don't  trouble  yourselves  to  come ;  I  '11  send  for 
you.  .  ." 

Every  day  he  found  them  in  the  same  place  and 
got  rid  of  them  by  a  large  coin  proportioned  to 
the  enormity  of  his  remorse.  Enchanted  with  this 
method  of  "  doing  the  Jungfrau,"  the  moun- 
taineers pocketed  their  trinkgeld  gravely,  and  took, 
with  resigned  step,  the  path  to  their  native  village, 
leaving  Tartarin  confused  and  despairing  at  his 
own  weakness.  Then  the  broad  open  air,  the 
flowering  plains  reflected  in  the  limpid  pupils  of 
Soma's  eyes,  the  touch  of  her  little  foot  against 
his  boot  in  the  carriage.  .  .  The  devil  take  that 
Jungfrau !  The  hero  thought  only  of  his  love, 
or  rather  of  the  mission  he  had  given  himself  to 
bring  back  into  the  right  path  that  poor  little 
Sonia,  so  unconsciously  criminal,  cast  by  sisterly 
devotion  outside  of  the  law,  and  outside  of  human 
nature. 

This  was  the  motive  that  kept  him  at  Interlaken, 
in  the  same  hotel  as  the  Wassiliefs.  At  his  age, 
with  his  air  of  a  good  papa,  he  certainly  could  not 
dream  of  making  that  poor  child  love  him,  but  he 


248  Tartarht  on  the  Alps. 

saw  her  so  sweet,  so  brave,  so  generous  to  all  the 
unfortunates  of  her  party,  so  devoted  to  that 
brother  whom  the  mines  of  Siberia  had  sent  back 
to  her,  his  body  eaten  with  ulcers,  poisoned  with 
verdigris,  and  he  himself  condemned  to  death  by 
phthisis  more  surely  than  by  any  court.  There 
was  enough  in  all  that  to  touch  a  man  ! 

Tartarin  proposed  to  take  them  to  Tarascon 
and  settle  them  in  a  villa  full  of  sun  at  the 
gates  of  the  town,  that  good  little  town  where 
it  never  rains  and  where  life  is  spent  in  fetes  and 
song.  And  with  that  he  grew  excited,  rattled  a 
tambourine  air  on  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and 
trolled  out  the  gay  native  chorus  of  the  faran- 
dole  dance : 

Lagadigadeoii 
La  Tarasque,  la  Tarasque, 

Lagadigadeou 
La  Tarasque  de  Casteoij. 

But  while  a  satirical  smile  pinched  still  closer 
the  lips  of  the  sick  man,  Sonia  shook  her  head. 
Neither  fetes  nor  sun  for  her  so  long  as  the 
Russians  groaned  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  tyrant. 
As  soon  as  her  brother  was  well  —  her  despairing 
eyes  said  another  thing —  nothing  could  prevent 
her  from  returning  up  there  to  suffer  and  die 
in  the  sacred  cause. 

"But,  coqnin  de  bon  sort!'"  cried  Tartarin,  ''if 
you  blow  up  one  tyrant  there  '11  come  another.  .  . 
You  will  have  it  all  to  do  over  again.  .  .  And 
the  years  will  go  by,  ve  !  the  days  for  happiness 


Memorable  Dialogue,  249 

and  love.  ."  His  way  of  saying  love  —  amour — 
a  la  Tarasconese,  with  three  r's  in  it  and  his  eyes 
starting  out  of  his  head,  amused  the  young  girl: 
then,  serious  once  more,  she  declared  she  would 
never  love  any  man  but  the  one  who  delivered  her 
country.  Yes,  that  man,  were  he  as  ugly  as 
Bolibine,  more  rustic  and  common  than  Manilof, 
she  was  ready  to  give  herself  wholly  to  him,  to 
live  at  his  side,  a  free  gift,  as  long  as  her  youth 
lasted  and  the  man  wished  for  her. 

"  Free  gift !  "  the  term  used  by  Nihilists  to 
express  those  illegal  unions  they  contract  among 
themselves  by  reciprocal  consent.  And  of  such 
primitive  marriage  Sonia  spoke  tranquilly  with 
her  virgin  air  before  the  Tarasconese,  who,  worthy 
bourgeois,  peaceful  elector,  was  now  ready  to 
spend  his  days  beside  that  adorable  girl  in  the 
said  state  of  "  free  gift "  if  she  had  not  added 
those  murderous  and  abominable  conditions. 

While  they  were  conversing  of  these  extremely 
delicate  matters,  the  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests, 
the  mountains  lay  spread  before  them,  and  always 
at  each  new  turn,  through  the  cool  mist  of  that 
perpetual  shower  which  accompanied  our  hero 
on  all  his  excursions,  the  Jungfrau  raised  her 
white  crest,  as  if  to  poison  by  remorse  those  de- 
licious hours.  They  returned  to  breakfast  at 
a  vast  table  d'hote  where  the  Rices  and  Prunes 
continued  their  silent  hostilities,  to  which  Tartarin 
was  wholly  indifferent,  seated  by  Sonia,  watching 
that  Boris  had  no  open  window  at  his  back, 
assiduous,  paternal,  exhibiting  all  his  seductions 


250  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps. 

as  man  of  the  world  and  his  domestic  qualities 
as  an  excellent  cabbage-rabbit. 

After  this,  he  took  tea  with  the  Russians  in 
their  little  salon  opening  on  a  tiny  garden  at 
the  end  of  the  terrace.  Another  exquisite  hour 
for  Tartarin  of  intimate  chat  in  a  low  voice 
while  Boris  slept  on  a  sofa.  The  hot  water  bubbled 
in  the  samovar;  a  perfume  of  moist  flowers 
slipped  through  the  half-opened  door  with  the 
blue  reflection  of  the  solanums  that  were  clustering 
about  it.  A  little  more  sun,  more  warmth,  and 
here  was  his  dream  realized,  his  pretty  Russian 
installed  beside  him,  taking  care  of  the  garden 
of  the  baobab. 

Suddenly  Sonia  gave  a  jump. 

"  Two  o'clock  !  .  .     And  the  letters?  " 

"  I  'm  going  for  them,"  said  the  good  Tartarin, 
and,  merely  from  the  tones  of  his  voice  and  the 
resolute,  theatrical  gesture  with  which  he  but- 
toned his  coat  and  seized  his  cane,  any  one  would 
have  guessed  the  gravity  of  the  action,  apparently 
so  simple,  of  going  to  the  post-office  to  fetch  the 
Wassilief  letters. 

Closely  watched  by  the  local  authorities  and 
the  Russian  police,  all  Nihilists,  but  especially 
their  leaders,  are  compelled  to  take  certain  pre- 
cautions, such  as  having  their  letters  and  papers 
addressed  poste  restante  to  simple  initials. 

Since  their  installation  at  Interlaken,  Boris 
being  scarcely  able  to  drag  himself  about,  Tartarin, 
to  spare  Sonia  the  annoyance  of  waiting  in  line 
before  the  post-oflice   wicket  exposed  to   inquisi- 


Memorable  Dialogue,  251 

tive  eyes,  had  taken  upon  himself  the  risks  and 
perils  of  this  daily  nuisance.  The  post-office 
is  not  more  than  ten  minutes*  walk  from  the 
hotel,  in  a  wide  and  noisy  street  at  the  end  of  a 
promenade  lined  with  cafes,  breweries,  shops  for 
the  tourists  displaying  alpenstocks,  gaiters,  straps, 
opera-glasses,  smoked  glasses,  flasks,  travelling- 
bags,  all  of  which  articles  seemed  placed  there 
expressly  to  shame  the  renegade  Alpinist.  Tour- 
ists were  defiling  in  caravans,  with  horses,  guides, 
mules,  veils  green  and  blue,  and  a  tintinnabulation 
of  canteens  as  the  animals  ambled,  the  ice-picks 
marking  each  step  on  the  cobble-stones.  But  this 
festive  scene,  hourly  renewed,  left  Tartarin  indiffer- 
ent. He  never  even  felt  the  fresh  north  wind 
with  a  touch  of  snow  coming  in  gusts  from  the 
mountains,  so  intent  was  he  on  baffling  the  spies 
whom  he  supposed  to  be  upon  his  traces. 

The  foremost  soldier  of  a  vanguard,  the  sharp- 
shooter skirting  the  walls  of  an  enemy's  town, 
never  advanced  with  more  mistrust  than  the  Taras- 
conese  hero  while  crossing  the  short  distance 
between  the  hotel  and  the  post-office.  At  the 
slightest  heel-tap  sounding  behind  his  own,  he 
stopped,  looked  attentively  at  the  photographs  in 
the  windows,  or  fingered  an  English  or  German 
book  lying  on  a  stall,  to  oblige  the  police  spy  to 
pass  him.  Or  else  he  turned  suddenly  round,  to 
stare  with  ferocious  eyes  at  a  stout  servant-girl  going 
to  market,  or  some  harmless  tourist,  a  table  d'hdte 
Prune,  who,  taking  him  for  a  madman,  turned  off, 
alarmed,  from  the  sidewalk  to  avoid  him. 


252  Tartarin  07i  the  Alps, 

When  he  reached  the  office,  where  the  wickets 
open,  rather  oddly,  into  the  street  itself,  Tartarin 
passed  and  repassed,  to  observe  the  surrounding 
physiognomies  before  he  himself  approached: 
then,  suddenly  darting  forward,  he  inserted  his 
whole  head  and  shoulders  into  the  opening,  mut- 
tered a  few  indistinct  syllables  (which  they  always 
made  him  repeat,  to  his  great  despair),  and,  pos- 
sessor at  last  of  the  mysterious  trust,  he  returned 
to  the  hotel  by  a  great  detour  on  the  kitchen  side, 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  clutching  the  package  of 
letters  and  papers,  prepared  to  tear  up  and  swal- 
low everything  at  the  first  alarm. 

Manilof  and  Bolibine  were  usually  awaiting  his 
return  with  the  Wassiliefs.  They  did  not  lodge  in 
the  hotel,  out  of  prudence  and  economy.  Bolibine 
had  found  work  in  a  printing-office,  and  Manilof, 
a  very  clever  cabinetmaker,  was  employed  by  a 
builder.  Tartarin  did  not  like  them  :  one  annoyed 
him  by  his  grimaces  and  his  jeering  airs ;  the 
other  kept  looking  at  him  savagely.  Besides, 
they  took  too  much  space  in  Sonia's  heart. 

"  He  is  a  hero  !  "  she  said  of  Bolibine;  and  she 
told  how  for  three  years  he  had  printed  all  alone, 
in  the  very  heart  of  St.  Petersburg,  a  revolutionary 
paper.  Three  years  without  ever  leaving  his 
upper  room,  or  showing  himself  at  a  window,  sleep- 
ing at  night  in  a  great  cupboard  built  in  the  wall, 
where  the  woman  who  lodged  him  locked  him  up 
till  morning  with  his  clandestine  press. 

And  then,  that  life  of  Manilof,  spent  for  six 
months  in  the  subterranean  passages  beneath  the 


Memorable  Dialogue,  253 

Winter  Palace,  watching  his  opportunity,  sleeping 
at  night  on  his  provision  of  dynamite,  which  re- 
sulted in  giving  him  frightful  headaches,  and 
nervous  troubles;  all  this,  aggravated  by  perpetual 
anxiety,  sudden  irruptions  of  the  police,  vaguely 
informed  that  something  was  plotting,  and  coming, 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  to  surprise  the  work- 
men employed  at  the  Palace.  On  one  of  the  rare 
occasions  when  Manilof  came  out  of  the  mine,  he 
met  on  the  Place  de  TAmiraut^  a  delegate  of  the 
Revolutionary  Committee,  who  asked  him  in  a  low 
voice,  as  he  walked  along; 

"Is  it  finished?" 

"  No,  not  yet  .  .  ."  said  the  other,  scarcely  mov- 
ing his  lips.  At  last,  on  an  evening  in  February, 
to  the  same  question  in  the  same  words  he 
answered,  with  the  greatest  calmness: 

"  It  is  finished.  .  ." 

And  almost  immediately  a  horrible  uproar 
confirmed  his  words,  all  the  lights  of  the  palace 
went  out  suddenly,  the  place  was  plunged  into 
complete  obscurity,  rent  by  cries  of  agony  and 
terror,  the  blowing  of  bugles,  the  galloping  of 
soldiers,  and  firemen  tearing  along  with  their  trucks. 

Here  Sonia  interrupted  her  tale  : 

"  Is  it  not  horrible,  so  many  human  lives  sacri- 
ficed, such  efforts,  such  courage,  such  wasted 
intelligence?  .  .  No,  no,  it  is  a  bad  means,  these 
butcheries  in  the  mass.  .  .  He  who  should  be 
killed  always  escapes.  .  .  The  true  way,  the  most 
humane,  would  be  to  seek  the  czar  himself  as  you 
seek  the  lion,  fully  determined,  fully  armed,  post 


254  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

yourself  at  a  window  or  the  door  of  a  carriage  .  .  , 
and,  when  he  passes " 

'-'-  Be  !  yes,  certainemain  .  .  ."responded  Tartarin 
embarrassed,  and  pretending  not  to  seize  her  mean- 
ing; then,  suddenly,  he  would  launch  into  a  philo- 
sophical, humanitarian  discussion  with  one  of  the 
numerous  assistants.  For  Bolibine  and  Manilof 
were  not  the  only  visitors  to  the  Wassiliefs  Every 
day  new  faces  appeared  of  young  people,  men  or 
women,  with  the  cut  of  poor  students ;  elated 
teachers,  blond  and  rosy,  with  the  self-willed 
forehead  and  the  childlike  ferocity  of  Sonia ;  out- 
lawed exiles,  some  of  them  already  condemned  to 
death,  which  lessened  in  no  way  their  youthful 
expansiveness. 

They  laughed,  they  talked  openly,  and  as  most 
of  them  spoke  French,  Tartarin  was  soon  at  his 
ease.  They  called  him  **  uncle,"  conscious  of 
something  childlike  and  artless  about  him  that 
they  liked.  Perhaps  he  was  over-ready  with  his 
hunting  tales ;  turning  up  his  sleeve  to  his  biceps  in 
order  to  show  the  scar  of  a  blow  from  a  panther's 
claws,  or  making  his  hearers  feel  beneath  his  beard 
the  holes  left  there  by  the  fangs  of  a  lion ;  perhaps 
also  he  became  too  rapidly  familiar  with  these 
persons,  catching  them  round  the  waist,  leaning  on 
their  shoulders,  calHng  them  by  their  Christian 
names  after  five  minutes'  intercourse : 

"  Listen,  Dmitri.  .  .  "  "  You  know  me,  Fedor 
Ivanovich.  .  ."  They  knew  him  only  since  yester- 
day, in  any  case ;  but  they  liked  him  all  the  same 
for   his  jovial  frankness,  his  amiable,  trustful  air, 


Memorable  Dialogue,  255 

and  his  readiness  to  please.  They  read  their  let- 
ters before  him,  planned  their  plots,  and  told  their 
passwords  to  foil  the  police :  a  whole  atmosphere 
of  conspiracy  which  amused  the  imagination  of  the 
Tarasconese  hero  immensely :  so  that,  however 
opposed  by  nature  to  acts  of  violence,  he  could 
not  help,  at  times,  discussing  their  homicidal  plans, 
approving,  criticising,  and  giving  advice  dictated 
by  the  experience  of  a  great  leader  who  has  trod 
the  path  of  war,  trained  to  the  handling  of  all 
weapons,  and  to  hand-to-hand  conflicts  with  wild 
beasts. 

One  day,  when  they  told  in  his  presence  of  the 
murder  of  a  policeman,  stabbed  by  a  Nihilist  at 
the  theatre,  Tartarin  showed  them  how  badly  the 
blow  had  been  struck,  and  gave  them  a  lesson  in 
knifing. 

**  Like  this,  v^ !  from  the  top  down.  Then 
there 's  no  risk  of  wounding  yourself.  .  ." 

And,  excited  by  his  own  imitation : 

*'  Let 's  suppose,  U !  that  I  hold  your  despot 
between  four  eyes  in  a  boar-hunt.  He  is  over 
there,  where  you  are,  Fedor,  and  I'm  here,  near 
this  round  table,  each  of  us  with  our  hunting- 
knife.  .  .  Come  on,  monseigneur,  we  '11  have  it 
out  now.  .  ." 

Planting  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  salon, 
gathering  his  sturdy  legs  under  him  for  a  spring, 
and  snorting  like  a  woodcbopper,  he  mimicked  a 
real  fight,  ending  by  his  cry  of  triumph  as  he 
plunged  the  weapon  to  the  hilt,  from  the  top  down, 
coquin  de  sort  I  into  the  bowels  of  his  adversary. 


256  Tartari7i  on  the  Alps, 

"  That 's  how  it  ought  to  be  done,  my  Httle 
fellows ! " 

But  what  subsequent  remorse !  what  anguish 
when,  escaping  from  the  magnetism  of  Sonia's  blue 
eyes,  he  found  himself  alone,  in  his  nightcap,  alone 
with  his  reflections  and  his  nightly  glass  of  eau 
sucr^e  ! 

Differ emment^  what  was  he  meddling  with? 
The  czar  was  not  his  czar,  decidedly,  and  all 
these  matters  didn  't  concern  him  in  the  least.  .  . 
And  don't  you  see  that  some  of  these  days  he 
would  be  captured,  extradited  and  delivered  over: 
to  Muscovite  justice.  .  .  Boufre !  they  don't 
joke,  those  Cossacks. .  .  And  in  the  obscurity  of 
his  hotel  chamber,  with  that  horrible  imagina- 
tive faculty  which  the  horizontal  position  increases, 
there  developed  before  him  —  like  one  of  those 
unfolding  pictures  given  to  him  in  childhood  — 
the  various  and  terrible  punishments  to  which 
he  should  be  subjected:  Tartarin  in  the  verdigris 
mines,  like  Boris,  working  in  water  to  his  belly, 
his  body  ulcerated,  poisoned.  He  escapes,  he 
hides  amid  forests  laden  with  snow,  pursued  by 
Tartars  and  bloodhounds  trained  to  hunt  men. 
Exhausted  with  cold  and  hunger,  he  is  retaken  and 
finally  hung  between  two  thieves,  embraced  by  a 
pope  with  greasy  hair  smelling  of  brandy  and  seal- 
oil;  while  away  down  there,  at  Tarascon  in  the 
sunshine,  the  band  playing  of  a  fine  Sunday, 
the  crowd,  the  ungrateful  crowd,  are  installing  a 
radiant  Costecalde  in  the  chair  of  the  P.  C  A. 

It  was  during  the  agony  of  one  of  these  dreadful 


Memorable  Dialogue,  257 

dreams  that  he  uttered  his  cry  of  distress,  "  Help, 
help,  Bezuquet!  "  and  sent  to  the  apothecary  that 
confidential  letter,  all  moist  with  the  sweat  of  his 
nightmare.  But  Sonia's  pretty  "Good  morning" 
beneath  his  window  sufficed  to  cast  him  back  into 
the  weaknesses  of  indecision. 

One  evening,  returning  from  the  Kursaal  to  the 
hotel  with  the  Wassiliefs  and  Bolibine,  after  two 
hours  of  intoxicating  music,  the  unfortunate  man 
forgot  all  prudence,  and  the  **  Sonia,  I  love  you," 
which  he  had  so  long  restrained,  was  uttered  as  he 
pressed  the  arm  that  rested  on  his  own.  She  was 
not  agitated.  Perfectly  pale,  she  gazed  at  him 
under  the  gas  of  the  portico  on  which  they  had 
paused :  "  Then  deserve  me.  .  ."  she  said,  with  a 
pretty  enigmatical  smile,  a  smile  that  gleamed  upon 
her  delicate  white  teeth.  Tartarin  was  about  to 
reply,  to  bind  himself  by  an  oath  to  some  criminal 
madness  when  the  porter  of  the  hotel  came  up  to 
him: 

"  There  are  persons  waiting  for  you,  upstairs.  .  . 
some  gentlemen.  .  .  They  want  you." 

''  Want  me  !  .  .  Outre  !  .  .  What  for?  "  And 
No.  I  of  his  folding  series  appeared  before  him : 
Tartarin  captured,  extradited.  .  .  Of  course  he  was 
frightened,  but  his  attitude  was  heroic.  Quickly 
detaching  himself  from  Sonia :  "  Fly,  save  your- 
self! "  he  said  to  her  in  a  smothered  voice.  Then 
he  mounted  the  stairs  as  if  to  the  scaffold,  his  head 
high,  his  eyes  proud,  but  so  disturbed  in  mind  that 
he  was  forced  to  cling  to  the  baluster. 

As  he  entered  the  corridor,  he  saw  persons 
17 


258  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

grouped  at  the  farther  end  of  it  before  his  door, 
looking  through  the  keyhole,  rapping,  and  calling 
out:   "Hey!  Tartarin.  .  ." 

He  made  two  steps  forward,  and  said,  with 
parched  lips :  **  Is  it  I  whom  you  are  seeking, 
messieurs  ? " 

"  Te  ! pardi,  yes,  my  president!  .  ." 

And  a  little  old  man,  alert  and  wiry,  dressed  in 
gray,  and  apparently  bringing  on  his  coat>  his  hat, 
his  gaiters  and  his  long  and  pendent  moustache  all 
the  dust  of  his  native  town,  fell  upon  the  neck  of 
the  hero  and  rubbed  against  his  smooth  fat  cheeks 
the  withered  leathery  skin  of  the  retired  captain  of 
equipment. 

*'  Bravida  !  .  .  not  possible  !  .  .  Excourbanies 
too  !  .  .  and  who  is  that  over  there?  .  ." 

A  bleating  answered  :  *'  Dear  ma-a-aster  !  .  ." 
and  the  pupil  advanced,  banging  against  the  wall  a 
sort  of  long  fishing-rod  with  a  packet  at  one  end 
wrapped  in  gray  paper,  and  oilcloth  tied  round  it 
with  string. 

*'  Hey !  ve  !  why  it 's  Pascalon.  .  .  Embrace  me, 
little  one.  .  .  What's  that  you  are  carrying?  . .  Put 
it  down.  .  ." 

**  The  paper. .  .  take  off  the  paper ! .  ."  whispered 
Bravida.  The  youth  undid  the  roll  with  a  rapid 
hand  and  the  Tarasconese  banner  was  displayed  to 
the  eyes  of  the  amazed  Tartarin. 

The  delegates  took  off  their  hats. 

"President"  —  the  voice  of  Bravida  trembled 
solemnly  —  "  you  asked  for  the  banner  and  we  have 
brought  it,  te !  " 


Memorable  Dialogue.  259 

The  president  opened  a  pair  of  eyes  as  round  as 
apples:   '' I !  I  asked  for  it?" 

"What!  you  did  not  ask  for  it?  Bezuquet  said 
so." 

**  Yes,  yes,  certainemain,  ,  ."  said  Tartarin,  sud- 
denly enlightened  by  the  mention  of  Bezuquet. 
He  understood  all  and  guessed  the  rest,  and, 
tenderly  moved  by  the  ingenious  lie  of  the  apoth- 
ecary to  recall  him  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  honour, 
he  choked,  and  stammered  in  his  short  beard : 
"  Ah  !  my  children,  how  kind  you  are  !  What  good 
you  have  done  me !  " 

"  Vive  le  prhidain ! "  yelped  Pascalon,  bran- 
dishing the  oriflamme.  Excourbanies'  gong  re- 
sponded, rolling  its  war-cry  ("  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  fen  d^ 
brut.  .  .")  to  the  very  cellars  of  the  hotel.  Doors 
opened,  inquisitive  heads  protruded  on  every  floor 
and  then  disappeared,  alarmed,  before  that  standard 
and  the  dark  and  hairy  men  who  were  roaring 
singular  words  and  tossing  their  arms  in  the  air. 
Never  had  the  peaceable  Hotel  Jungfrau  been 
subjected  to  such  a  racket. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  said  Tartarin,  rather 
disconcerted.  He  was  feeling  about  in  the  dark- 
ness to  find  matches  when  an  authoritative  rap  on 
the  door  made  it  open  of  itself  to  admit  the  con- 
sequential, yellow,  and  puffy  face  of  the  innkeeper 
Meyer.  He  was  about  to  enter,  but  stopped  short 
before  the  darkness  of  the  room,  and  said  with 
closed  teeth: 

"  Try  to  keep  quiet  ...  or  I  '11  have  you  taken 
up  by  the  police.  .  ." 


26o  Tartarm  on  the  Alps. 

A  grunt  as  of  wild  bulls  issued  from  the  shadow 
at  that  brutal  term  "  taken  up."  The  hotel-keeper 
recoiled  one  step,  but  added :  *'  It  is  known  who 
you  are ;  they  have  their  eye  upon  you ;  for  my 
part,  I  don't  want  any  more  such  persons  in  my 
house !  .  ." 

"  Monsieur  Meyer,"  said  Tartarin,  gently,  polite- 
ly, but  very  firmly.  .  .  "  Send  me  my  bill.  .  . 
These  gentlemen  and  myself  start  to-morrow 
morning  for  the  Jungfrau." 

O  native  soil !  O  little  country  within  a  great 
one !  by  only  hearing  the  Tarasconese  accent, 
quivering  still  with  the  air  of  that  beloved  land 
beneath  the  azure  folds  of  its  banner,  behold  Tar- 
tarin, delivered  from  love  and  its  snares  and  restored 
to  his  friends,  his  mission,  his  glory. 

And  now,  zou  I 


At  the  ''Faithful  Chamois^        261 


IX. 

At  the  ^^ Faithful  Chafnois.^^ 

The  next  day  it  was  charming,  that  trip  on  foot 
from  Interlaken  to  Grindelwald,  where  they  were, 
in  passing,  to  take  guides  for  the  Little  Scheideck; 
charming,  that  triumphal  march  of  the  P.  C.  A., 
restored  to  his  trappings  and  mountain  habihments, 
leaning  on  one  side  on  the  lean  little  shoulder  of 
Commander  Bravida,  and  on  the  other,  the  robust 
arm  of  Excourbanies,  proud,  both  of  them,  to  be 
nearest  to  him,  to  support  their  dear  president,  to 
carry  his  ice-axe,  his  knapsack,  his  alpenstock, 
while  sometimes  before,  sometimes  behind  or  on 
their  flanks  the  fanatical  Pascalon  gambolled  like 
a  puppy,  his  banner  duly  rolled  up  into  a  package 
to  avoid  the  tumultuous  scenes  of  the  night  before. 

The  gayety  of  his  companions,  the  sense  of  duty 
accomplished,  the  Jungfrau  all  white  upon  the 
sky,  over  there,  like  a  vapour  —  nothing  short  of 
all  this  could  have  made  the  hero  forget  what  he 
left  behind  him,  for  ever  and  ever  it  may  be,  and 
without  farewell.  However,  at  the  last  houses  of 
Interlaken  his  eyelids  swelled  and,  still  walking  on, 
he  poured  out  his  feelings  in  turn  into  the  bosom 
of  Excourbanies:  "Listen,  Spiridion,"  or  that  of 
Bravida :    "  You   know  me,  Placide.  .  ."     For,  by 


262  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

an  irony  on  nature,  that  indomitable  warrior  was 
called  Placide,  and  that  rough  buffalo,  with  all  his 
instincts  material,  Spiridion. 

Unhappily,  the  Tarasconese  race,  more  gallant 
than  sentimental,  never  takes  its  love-affairs  very 
seriously.  "  Whoso  loses  a  woman  and  ten  sous, 
is  to  be  pitied  about  the  money.  .  ."  replied  the 
sententious  Placide  to  Tartarin's  tale,  and  Spiridion 
thought  exactly  like  him.  As  for  the  innocent 
Pascalon,  he  was  horribly  afraid  of  women,  and 
reddened  to  the  ears  when  the  name  of  the  Little 
Scheideck  was  uttered  before  him,  thinking  some 
lady  of  flimsy  morals  was  referred  to.  The  poor 
lover  was  therefore  reduced  to  keep  his  confi- 
dences to  himself,  and  console  himself  alone  — 
which,  after  all,  is  the  surest  way. 

But  what  grief  could  have  resisted  the  attractions 
of  the  way  through  that  narrow,  deep  and  sombre 
valley,  where  they  walked  on  the  banks  of  a  wind- 
ing river  all  white  with  foam,  rumbling  with  an 
echo  like  thunder  among  the  pine-woods  which 
skirted  both  its  shores. 

The  Tarasconese  delegation,  their  heads  in  the 
air,  advanced  with  a  sort  of  religious  awe  and  ad- 
miration, like  the  comrades  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor 
when  they  stood  before  the  mangoes,  the  cotton- 
trees,  and  all  the  giant  flora  of  the  Indian  coasts. 
Knowing  nothing  but  their  own  little  bald  and 
stony  mountains  they  had  never  imagined  there 
could  be  so  many  trees  together  or  such  tall  ones. 

"  That  is  nothing,  as  yet.  .  .  wait  till  you  see  the 
Jungfrau,"  said  the  P.  C.  A.,  who  enjoyed  their 


At  the  ''Faithful  Chamois^        263 

amazement  and  felt  himself  magnified  in  their 
eyes. 

At  the  same  time,  as  if  to  brighten  the  scene 
and  humanize  its  solemn  note,  cavalcades  went  by 
them,  great  landaus  going  at  full  speed,  with  veils 
floating  from  the  doorways  where  curious  heads 
leaned  out  to  look  at  the  delegation  pressing  round 
its  president.  From  point  to  point  along  the  road- 
side were  booths  spread  with  knick-knacks  of 
carved  wood,  while  young  girls,  stiff  in  their  laced 
bodices,  their  striped  skirts  and  broad-brimmed 
straw  hats,  were  offering  bunches  of  strawberries 
and  edelweiss.  Occasionally,  an  Alpine  horn  sent 
among  the  mountains  its  melancholy  ritornello, 
swelling,  echoing  from  gorge  to  gorge,  and  slowly 
diminishing,  like  a  cloud  that  dissolves  into 
vapour. 

"  'T  is  fine,  't  is  like  an  organ,"  murmured  Pasca- 
lon,  his  eyes  moist,  in  ecstasy,  like  the  stained-glass 
saint  of  a  church  window.  Excourbanies  roared, 
undiscouraged,  and  the  echoes  repeated,  till  sight 
and  sound  were  lost,  his  Tarasconese  intonations : 
"  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  fen  d^  brut!  " 

But  people  grow  weary  after  marching  for  two 
hours  through  the  same  sort  of  decorative  scene, 
however  well  it  may  be  organized,  green  on  blue, 
glaciers  in  the  distance,  and  all  things  sonorous  as 
a  musical  clock.  The  dash  of  the  torrents,  the 
singers  in  triplets,  the  sellers  of  carved  objects, 
the  little  flower-giils,  soon  became  intolerable  to 
our  friends,  —  above  all,  the  dampness,  the  steam 
rising  in  this  species  of  tunnel,  the  soaked  soil 


264  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

full  of  water-plants,  where  never  had  the  sun 
penetrated. 

''  It  is  enough  to  give  one  a  pleurisy,"  said 
Bravida,  turning  up  the  collar  of  his  coat.  Then 
weariness  set  in,  hunger,  ill-humour.  They  could 
find  no  inn ;  and  presently  Excourbanies  and 
Bravida,  having  stuffed  themselves  with  straw- 
berries, began  to  suffer  cruelly.  Pascalon  himself, 
that  angel,  bearing  not  only  the  banner,  but  the 
ice-axe,  the  knapsack,  the  alpenstock,  of  which  the 
others  had  rid  themselves  basely  upon  him,  even 
Pascalon  had  lost  his  gayety  and  ceased  his  lively 
gambolling. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road,  after  they  had  just  crossed 
the  Lutschine  by  one  of  those  covered  bridges  that 
are  found  in  regions  of  deep  snow,  a  loud  blast  on 
a  horn  greeted  them. 

**  Ah  !  vai,  enough !  .  .  enough  !  "  howled  the 
exasperated  delegation. 

The  man,  a  giant,  ensconced  by  the  roadside,  let 
go  an  enormous  trumpet  of  pine  wood  reaching  to 
the  ground  and  ending  there  in  a  percussion-box, 
which  gave  to  this  prehistoric  instrument  the  so- 
norousness of  a  piece  of  artillery. 

"  Ask  him  if  he  knows  of  an  inn,"  said  the  pres- 
ident to  Excourbanies,  who,  with  enormous  cheek 
and  a  small  pocket  dictionary  undertook,  now  that 
they  were  in  German  Switzerland,  to  serve  the 
delegation  as  interpreter.  But  before  he  could  pull 
out  his  dictionary  the  man  replied  in  very  good 
French : 

"An  inn,  messieurs?     Why  certainly.  .  .     The 


At  the  ''Faithful  Chamois^         265 

'  Faithful  Chamois'  is  close  by;  allow  me  to  show' 
you  the  place." 

On  the  way,  he  told  them  he  had  lived  in  Paris 
for  several  years,  as  commissionnaire  at  the  corner 
of  the  rue  Vivienne. 

"Another  employ^  of  the  Company, /^r<^/^/// " 
thought  Tartarin,  leaving  his  friends  to  be  sur- 
prised. However,  Bompard's  comrade  was  very 
useful,  for,  in  spite  of  its  French  sign,  Le  Chamois 
Fidcle,  the  people  of  the  "  Faithful  Chamois " 
could  speak  nothing  but  a  horrible  German  patois. 

Presently,  the  Tarasconese  delegation,  seated 
around  an  enormous  potato  omelet,  recovered 
both  the  health  and  the  good-humour  as  essential 
to  Southerners  as  the  sun  of  their  skies.  They 
drank  deep,  they  ate  solidly.  After  many  toasts 
to  the  president  and  his  coming  ascension,  Tarta- 
rin, who  had  puzzled  over  the  tavern-sign  ever 
since  his  arrival,  inquired  of  the  horn-player,  who 
was  breaking  a  crust  in  a  corner  of  the  room : 

"So  you  have  chamois  here,  it  seems?  .  .  I 
thought  there  were  none  left  in  Switzerland." 

The  man  winked  : 

"  There  are  not  many,  but  enough  to  let  you  see 
them  now  and  then." 

"Shoot  them,  is  what  he  wants,  v^ f'  said  Pas- 
calon,  full  of  enthusiasm ;  "  never  did  the  president 
miss  a  shot." 

Tartarin  regretted  that  he  had  not  brought  his 
carbine. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  and  I  '11  speak  to  the  landlord." 

It  so  happened  that  the  landlord  was    an  old 


266  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

chamois  hunter;  he  offered  his  gun,  his  powder, 
his  buck-shot,  and  even  himself  as  guide  to  a  haunt 
he  knew. 

"■  Forward,  zou  ! "  cried  Tartarin,  granting  to 
his  happy  Alpinists  the  opportunity  to  show  off 
the  prowess  of  their  chief  It  was  only  a  slight 
delay,  after  all;  the  Jungfrau  lost  nothing  by 
waiting. 

Leaving  the  inn  at  the  back,  they  had  only  to 
walk  through  an  orchard,  no  bigger  than  the  gar- 
den of  a  station-master,  before  they  found  them- 
selves on  a  mountain,  gashed  with  great  crevasses, 
among  the  fir-trees  and  underbrush. 

The  innkeeper  took  the  advance,  and  the  Taras- 
conese  presently  saw  him  far  up  the  height,  waving 
his  arms  and  throwing  stones,  no  doubt  to  rouse 
the  chamois.  They  rejoined  him  with  much  pain 
and  difficulty  over  that  rocky  slope,  hard  especially 
to  persons  who  had  just  been  eating  and  were  as 
little  used  to  climbing  as  these  good  Alpinists  of 
Tarascon.  The  air  was  heavy,  moreover,  with  a 
tempest  breath  that  was  slowly  rolling  the  clouds 
along  the  summits  above  their  heads. 

**  Boufre  !  "  groaned  Bravida. 

Excourbanies  growled  :   ''  Outre  !  " 

**  What  shall  I  be  made  to  say !  "  added  the 
gentle,  bleating  Pascalon. 

But  the  guide  having,  by  a  violent  gesture,  or- 
dered them  to  hold  their  tongues,  and  not  to  stir, 
Tartarin  remarked,  "  Never  speak  under  arms," 
with  a  sternness  that  rebuked  every  one,  although 
the  president  alone  had  a  weapon.     They  stood 


At  the  ''Faithful  Chamois^         267 

stock  still,  holding  their  breaths.  Suddenly,  Pas- 
calon  cried  out: 

"  F//  the  chamois,  v^  f  .  ." 

About  three  hundred  feet  above  them,  the  up- 
right horns,  the  light  buff  coat  and  the  four  feet 
gathered  together  of  the  pretty  creature  stood  de- 
fined like  a  carved  image  at  the  edge  of  the  rock, 
looking  at  them  fearlessly.  Tartarin  brought  his 
piece  to  his  shoulder  methodically,  as  his  habit 
was,  and  was  just  about  to  fire  when  the  chamois 
disappeared. 

"  It  is  your  fault,"  said  the  Commander  to 
Pascalon  ..."  you  whistled  .  .  .  and  that  fright- 
ened him." 

"I  whistled!  .  .  I?" 

"  Then  it  was  Spiridion.  .  ." 

"  Ah,  vai  !  never  in  my  life." 

Nevertheless,  they  had  all  heard  a  whistle,  stri- 
dent, prolonged.  The  president  settled  the  ques- 
tion by  relating  how  the  chamois,  at  the  approach 
of  enemies,  gives  a  sharp  danger  signal  through 
the  nostrils.  That  devil  of  a  Tartarin  knew 
everything  about  this  kind  of  hunt,  as  about 
all  others ! 

At  the  call  of  their  guide  they  started  again ; 
but  the  acclivity  became  steeper  and  steeper,  the 
rocks  more  ragged,  with  bogs  between  them  to 
right  and  left.  Tartarin  kept  the  lead,  turning 
constantly  to  help  the  delegates,  holding  out  his 
hand  or  his  carbine:  "Your  hand,  your  hand, 
if  you  don't  mind,"  cried  honest  Bravida,  who  was 
very  much  afraid  of  loaded  weapons. 


268  Tartarm  on  the  Alps, 

Another  sign  of  the  guide,  another  stop  of  the 
delegation,  their  noses  in  the  air. 

"  I  felt  a  drop !  "  murmured  the  Commander, 
very  uneasy.  At  the  same  instant  the  thunder 
growled,  but  louder  than  the  thunder  roared  the 
voice  of  Excourbanies :  "  Fire,  Tartarin  !  "  and 
the  chamois  bounded  past  them,  crossing  the 
ravine  like  a  golden  flash,  too  quickly  for  Tartarin 
to  take  aim,  but  not  so  fast  that  they  did  not 
hear  that  whistle  of  his  nostrils. 

''  I  '11  have  him  yet,  coquin  de  sort!  "  cried  the 
president,  but  the  delegates  protested.  Excour- 
banies, becoming  suddenly  very  sour,  demanded 
if  he  had  sworn  to  exterminate  them. 

"  Dear  ma-a-aster,"  bleated  Pascalon,  timidly, 
*'  I  have  heard  say  that  chamois  if  you  corner 
them  in  abysses  turn  at  bay  against  the  hunter 
and  are  very  dangerous." 

"  Then  don't  let  us  corner  him !  "  said  Bravida 
hastily. 

Tartarin  called  them  milksops.  But  while  they 
were  arguing,  suddenly,  abruptly,  they  all  disap- 
peared from  one  another's  gaze  in  a  warm  thick 
vapour  that  smelt  of  sulphur,  through  which  they 
sought  each  other,  calling: 

''Hey!    Tartarin." 

"  Are  you  there,  Placide?  " 

"  Ma-a-as-ter !  " 

*'  Keep  cool !     Keep  cool !  " 

A  regular  panic.  Then  a  gust  of  wind  broke 
through  the  mist  and  whirled  it  away  like  a  torn 
veil  clinging  to  the  briers,  through  which  a  zigzag 


A I  the  ''Faithful  Chamois  T        269 

flash  of  lightning  fell  at  their  feet  with  a  frightful 
clap  of  thunder.  "  My  cap  !  "  cried  Spiridion,  as 
the  tempest  bared  his  head,  its  hairs  erect  and 
crackling  with  electric  sparks.  They  were  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  storm,  the  forge  itself  of 
Vulcan.  Bravida  was  the  first  to  fly,  at  full  speed, 
the  rest  of  the  delegation  flew  behind  him,  when 
a  cry  from  the  president,  who  thought  of  every- 
thing, stopped  them : 

"  Thunder !  .  .  beware  of  the  thunder !  .  .  " 

At  any  rate,  outside  of  the  very  real  danger  of 
which  he  warned  them,  there  was  no  possibility 
of  running,  on  those  steep  and  gullied  slopes,  now 
transformed  into  torrents,  into  cascades,  by  the 
pouring  rain.  The  return  was  awful,  by  slow 
steps  under  that  crazy  clifl",  amid  the  sharp,  short 
flashes  of  lightning  followed  by  explosions,  slip- 
ping, falling,  and  forced  at  times  to  halt.  Pascalon 
crossed  himself  and  invoked  aloud,  as  at  Tarascon  : 
"  Sainte  Marthe  and  Sainte  Helene,  Sainte  Marie- 
Madeleine,"  while  Excourbani^s  swore :  "  Coquin 
de  sort!  "  and  Bravida,  the  rearguard,  looked  back 
in  trepidation : 

'*  What  the  devil  is  that  behind  us  ?  .  .  It  is 
galloping  ...  it  is  whistling  .  . .  there,  it  has 
stopped  .  .  ." 

The  idea  of  a  furious  chamois  flinging  itself  upon 
its  hunters  was  in  the  mind  of  the  old  warrior.  In 
a  low  voice,  in  order  not  to  alarm  the  others,  he 
communicated  his  fears  to  Tartarin,  who  bravely 
took  his  place  as  the  rearguard  and  marched  along, 
soaked  to  the  skin,  his  head  high,  with  that  mute 


270  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

determination  which  is  given  by  the  imminence  of 
danger.  But  when  he  reached  the  inn  and  saw  his 
dear  Alpinists  under  shelter,  drying  their  wet  things, 
which  smoked  around  a  huge  porcelain  stove  in 
a  first  floor  chamber,  to  which  rose  an  odour  of 
grog  already  ordered,  the  president  shivered  and 
said,  looking  very  pale:  "I  believe  I  have  taken 
cold." 

"  Taken  cold !  "  No  question  now  of  starting 
again ;  the  delegation  asked  only  for  rest.  Quick, 
a  bed  was  warmed,  they  hurried  the  hot  wine  grog, 
and  after  his  second  glass  the  president  felt 
throughout  his  comfort-loving  body  a  warmth,  a 
tingling  that  augured  well.  Two  pillows  at  his 
back,  a  "  plumeau  "  on  his  feet,  his  muffler  round 
his  head,  he  experienced  a  delightful  sense  of 
well-being  in  Hstening  to  the  roaring  of  the  storm, 
inhaling  that  good  pine  odour  of  the  rustic  little 
room  with  its  wooden  walls  and  leaden  panes,  and 
in  looking  at  his  dear  Alpinists,  gathered,  glass  in 
hand,  around  his  bed  in  the  anomalous  character 
given  to  their  Gallic,  Roman  or  Saracenic  types  by 
the  counterpanes,  curtains,  and  carpets  in  which 
they  were  bundled  while  their  own  clothes  steamed 
before  the  stove.  Forgetful  of  himself,  he 
questioned  each  of  them  in  a  sympathetic  voice : 

**Are  you  well,  Placide?  .  .  Spiridion,  you 
seemed  to  be  suff'ering  just  now?  .  ." 

No,  Spiridion  suff'ered  no  longer,  all  that  had 
passed  away  on  seeing  the  president  so  ill. 
Bravida,  who  adapted  moral  truths  to  the  proverbs 
of  his  nation,  added  cynically:    "Neighbour's  ill 


At  the  ^'Faithful  Chamois T         271 

comforts,  and  even  cures."  Then  they  talked  of 
their  hunt,  exciting  one  another  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  certain  dangerous  episodes,  such  as  the 
moment  when  the  animal  turned  upon  them 
furiously;  and  without  complicity  of  lying,  in  fact, 
most  ingenuously,  they  fabricated  the  fable  they 
afterwards  related  on  their  return  to  Tarascon. 

Suddenly,  Pascalon,  who  had  been  sent  in  search 
of  another  supply  of  grog,  reappeared  in  terror, 
one  arm  out  of  the  blue-flowered  curtain  that  he 
gathered  about  him  with  the  chaste  gesture  of  a 
Polyeucte.  He  was  more  than  a  second  before  he 
could  articulate,  in  a  whisper,  breathlessly:  ''The 
chamois ! . ." 

"  Well,  what  of  the  chamois?  .  ." 

"  He  's  down  there,  in  the  kitchen  .  .  .  warming 
himself.  .  ." 

"  Ah  !  vat.  .  r 

"  You  are  joking.  .  ." 

**  Suppose  you  go  and  see,  Placide." 

Bravida  hesitated.  Excourbanies  descended  on 
the  tips  of  his  toes,  but  returned  almost  immedi- 
ately, his  face  convulsed.  .  .  More  and  more 
astounding !  .  .  the  chamois  was  drinking  grog. 

They  certainly  owed  it  to  him,  poor  beast,  after 
the  wild  run  he  had  been  made  to  take  on  the 
mountain,  dispatched  and  recalled  by  his  master, 
who,  as  a  usual  thing,  put  him  through  his  evolu- 
tions in  the  house,  to  show  to  tourists  how  easily  a 
chamois  could  be  trained. 

"  It  is  overwhelming !  "  said  Bravida,  making  no 
further  effort  at  comprehension  ;   as  for  Tartarin,  he 


272  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

dragged  the  muffler  over  his  eyes  like  a  nightcap 
to  hide  from  the  delegates  the  soft  hilarity  that 
overcame  him  at  encountering  wherever  he  went 
the  dodges  and  the  performers  of  Bompard's 
Switzerland. 


Tlie  Ascension  of  the  Ju7igfrau,     273 


X. 


The  ascension  of  the  Ju7igfrau.  VS !  the  oxen.  The 
Kennedy  crampons  will  not  work.  Nor  the  reed-lamp 
either.  Apparition  of  masked  tnen  at  the  chalet  of  the 
Alpi?te  Club.  The  president  i7i  a  crevasse.  On  the 
summit.     Tartarin  becomes  a  god. 

Great  influx,  that  morning,  to  the  Hotel  Belle- 
vue  on  the  Little  Scheideck.  In  spite  of  the  rain 
and  the  squalls,  tables  had  been  laid  outside  in  the 
shelter  of  the  veranda,  amid  a  great  display  of 
alpenstocks,  flasks,  telescopes,  cuckoo  clocks  in 
carved  wood,  so  that  tourists  could,  while  break- 
fasting, contemplate  at  a  depth  of  six  thousand 
feet  before  them  the  wonderful  valley  of  Grindel- 
wald  on  the  left,  that  of  Lauterbrunnen  on  the 
right,  and  opposite,  within  gunshot  as  it  seemed, 
the  immaculate,  grandiose  slopes  of  the  Jungfrau, 
its  fiMs,  glaciers,  all  that  reverberating  whiteness 
which  illumines  the  air  about  it,  making  glasses 
more   transparent,    and    linen    whiter. 

But  now,  for  a  time,  general  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  a  noisy,  bearded  caravan,  which  had  just 
arrived  on  horse,  mule,  and  donkey-back,  also  in  a 
chaise  a  porteiirs,  who  had  prepared  themselves  to 
climb  the  mountain  by  a  copious  breakfast,  and 
were  now  in  a  state  of  hilarity,  the  racket  of  which 

18 


274  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

contrasted  with  the  bored  and  solemn  airs  of 
the  very  distinguished  Rices  and  Prunes  collected 
on  the  Scheideck,  such  as:  Lord  Chipendale, 
the  Belgian  senator  and  his  family,  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  diplomat,  and  several  others.  It  would 
certainly  have  been  supposed  that  the  whole  party 
of  these  bearded  men  sitting  together  at  table 
were  about  to  attempt  the  ascension,  for  one  and 
all  were  busy  with  preparations  for  departure,  ris- 
ing, rushing  about  to  give  directions  to  the  guides, 
inspecting  the  provisions,  and  calling  to  each 
other  from  end  to  end  of  the  terrace  in  stentorian 
tones. 

"  Hey !  Placide,  ve  I  the  cooking-pan,  see  if  it 
is  in  the  knapsack !  .  .  Don't  forget  the  reed- 
lamp,  au  inouain!' 

Not  until  the  actual  departure  took  place  was  it 
seen  that,  of  all  the  caravan,  only  one  was  to  make 
the  ascension:  but  which  one? 

"Children,  are  we  ready?"  said  the  good  Tar- 
tarin in  a  joyous,  triumphant  voice,  in  which  not  a 
shade  of  anxiety  trembled  at  the  possible  dangers 
of  the  trip  —  his  last  doubt  as  to  the  Company's 
manipulation  of  Switzerland  being  dissipated  that 
very  morning  before  the  two  glaciers  of  Grindel- 
wald  each  protected  by  a  wicket  and  a  turnstile, 
with  this  inscription  ''  Entrance  to  the  glacier :  one 
franc  fifty." 

He  could,  therefore,  enjoy  without  anxiety  this 
departure  in  apotheosis,  the  joy  of  feeling  himself 
looked  at,  envied,  admired  by  those  bold  little 
misses  in  boys'  caps  who  laughed  at  him  so  prettily 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jtmgfrau,     275 

on  the  Rigi-Kulm,  and  were  now  enthusiastically 
comparing  his  short  person  with  the  enormous 
mountain  he  was  about  to  climb.  One  drew  his 
portrait  in  her  album,  another  sought  the  honour 
of  touching  his  alpenstock.  "  Tchemppegne  !  .  . 
Tchemppegne  !  .  ."  called  out  of  a  sudden  a  tall, 
funereal  Englishman  with  a  brick-coloured  skin, 
coming  up  to  him,  bottle  and  glass  in  hand. 
Then,  after  obliging  the  hero  to  drink  with  him : 

"  Lord  Chipendale,  sir  .  .  .     And  you?  " 

"  Tartarin  of  Tarascon." 

"  Oh !  yes  .  .  .  Tartarine  .  .  .  Capital  name  for 
a  horse,"  said  the  lord,  who  must  have  been  one  of 
those  great  turfmen  across  the  Channel. 

The  Austro-Hungarian  diplomat  also  came  to 
press  the  Alpinist's  hand  between  his  mittens, 
remembering  vaguely  to  have  seen  him  some- 
where. **  Enchanted  !  .  .  enchanted  !  .  .  "  he  enun- 
ciated several  times,  and  then,  not  knowing  how 
to  get  out  of  it,  he  added :  *'  My  compliments  to 
madame  ..."  his  social  formula  for  cutting  short 
presentations. 

But  the  guides  were  impatient ;  they  must  reach 
before  nightfall  the  hut  of  the  Alpine  Club,  where 
they  were  to  sleep  for  the  first  stage,  and  there  was 
not  a  minute  to  lose.  Tartarin  felt  it,  saluted  all 
with  a  circular  gesture,  smiled  at  the  malicious 
misses,  and  then,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  commanded  : 

"  Pascalon,  the  banner  !  " 

It  waved  to  the  breeze ;  the  Southerners  took  off 
their  hats,  for  they  love  theatricals  at  Tarascon ; 
and  at  the  cry,  a  score  of  times  repeated :  "  Long 


276  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

live  the  president !  .  .  Long  live  Tartarin  !  .  .  Ah  ! 
ah !  .  .  fe7i  de  brut !  .  .  "  the  column  moved  off,  the 
two  guides  in  front  carrying  the  knapsack,  the  pro- 
visions, and  a  supply  of  wood ;  then  came  Pascalon 
bearing  the  oriflamme,  and  lastly  the  P.  C.  A.  with 
the  delegates  who  proposed  to  accompany  him  as 
far  as  the  glacier  of  the  Guggi. 

Thus  deployed  in  procession,  bearing  its  flap- 
ping flag  along  the  sodden  way  beneath  those  bar- 
ren or  snowy  crests,  the  cortege  vaguely  recalled 
the  funeral  marches  of  an  All  Souls'  day  in  the 
country. 

Suddenly  the  Commander  cried  out,  alarmed : 

"  F//  those  oxen !  " 

Some  cattle  were  now  seen  browsing  the  short 
grass  in  the  hollows  of  the  ground.  The  former 
captain  of  equipment  had  a  nervous  and  quite 
insurmountable  terror  of  those  animals,  and  as  he 
could  not  be  left  alone  the  delegation  was  forced 
to  stop.  Pascalon  transmitted  the  standard  to  the 
guides.  Then,  with  a  last  embrace,  hasty  injunc- 
tions, and  one  eye  on  the  cows : 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  qu^  I  " 

"  No  imprudence,  au  mouain  ..."  they  parted. 
As  for  proposing  to  the  president  to  go  up  with 
him,  no  one  even  thought  of  it;  'twas  so  high, 
boufre  !  And  the  nearer  they  came  to  it  the  higher 
it  grew,  the  abysses  were  more  abysmal,  the  peaks 
bristled  up  in  a  white  chaos,  which  looked  to  be 
insurmountable.  It  was  better  to  look  at  the 
ascension  from  the  Scheideck. 

In  all  his  life,  naturally,  the  president  of  the  Club 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jungfrau,     277 

of  the  Alpines  had  never  set  foot  on  a  glacier. 
There  is  nothing  of  that  sort  on  the  mountainettes 
of  Tarascon,  little  hills  as  balmy  and  dry  as  a 
packet  of  lavender;  and  yet  the  approaches  to 
the  Guggi  gave  him  the  impression  of  having 
already  seen  them,  and  wakened  recollections  of 
hunts  in  Provence  at  the  end  of  the  Camargue, 
near  to  the  sea.  The  same  turf  always  getting 
shorter  and  parched,  as  if  seared  by  fire.  Here 
and  there  were  puddles  of  water,  infiltrations  of 
the  ground  betrayed  by  puny  reeds,  then  came  the 
moraine,  like  a  sandy  dune  full  of  broken  shells 
and  cinders,  and,  far  at  the  end,  the  glacier,  with 
its  blue-green  waves  crested  with  white  and 
rounded  in  form,  a  silent,  congealed  ground-swell. 
The  wind  which  came  athwart  it,  whistling  and 
strong,  had  the  same  biting,  salubrious  freshness 
as   his  own  sea-breeze. 

"  No,  thank  you.  .  .  I  have  my  crampons  ..." 
said  Tartarin  to  the  guide,  who  offered  him  woollen 
socks  to  draw  on  over  his  boots ;  "  Kennedy 
crampons .  .  .  perfected .  .  .  very  convenient  ..." 
He  shouted,  as  if  to  a  deaf  person,  in  order  to  make 
himself  understood  by  Christian  Inebnit,  who  knew 
no  more  French  than  his  comrade  Kaufmann ;  and 
then  the  P.  C.  A.  sat  down  upon  the  moraine 
and  strapped  on  a  species  of  sandal  with  three 
enormous  and  very  strong  iron  spikes.  He  had 
practised  them  a  hundred  times,  these  Kennedy 
crampons,  manoeuvring  them  in  the  garden  of  the 
baobab ;  nevertheless,  the  present  effect  was  un- 
expected.     Beneath   the  weight  of  the  hero  the 


278  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

spikes  were  driven  into  the  ice  with  such  force 
that  all  efforts  to  withdraw  them  were  vain.  Be- 
hold him,  therefore,  nailed  to  the  glacier,  sweat- 
ing, swearing,  making  with  arms  and  alpenstock 
most  desperate  gymnastics  and  reduced  finally  to 
shouting  for  his  guides,  who  had  gone  forward, 
convinced  that  they  had  to  do  with  an  experienced 
Alpinist. 

Under  the  impossibility  of  uprooting  him,  they 
undid  the  straps,  and,  the  crampons,  abandoned  in 
the  ice,  being  replaced  by  a  pair  of  knitted  socks, 
the  president  continued  his  way,  not  without  much 
difficulty  and  fatigue.  Unskilful  in  holding  his 
stick,  his  legs  stumbled  over  it,  then  its  iron  point 
skated  and  dragged  him  along  if  he  leaned  upon 
it  too  heavily.  He  tried  the  ice-axe  —  still  harder 
to  manoeuvre,  the  swell  of  the  glacier  increasing 
by  degrees,  and  pressing  up,  one  above  another, 
its  motionless  waves  with  all  the  appearance  of  a 
furious  and  petrified  tempest. 

Apparent  immobility  only,  for  hollow  crackings, 
subterranean  gurgles,  enormous  masses  of  ice  dis- 
placing themselves  slowly,  as  if  moved  by  the 
machinery  of  a  stage,  indicated  the  inward  life  of 
this  frozen  mass  and  its  treacherous  elements.  To 
the  eyes  of  our  Alpinist,  wherever  he  cast  his  axe 
crevasses  were  opening,  bottomless  pits,  where 
masses  of  ice  in  fragments  rolled  indefinitely.  The 
hero  fell  repeatedly ;  once  to  his  middle  in  one  of 
those  greenish  guUies,  where  his  broad  shoulders 
alone  kept  him  from  going  to  the  bottom. 

On  seeing  him  so  clumsy,  and  yet  so  tranquil, 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jungfrau,     279 

so  sure  of  himself,  laughing,  singing,  gesticulating, 
as  he  did  while  breakfasting,  the  guides  imagined 
that  Swiss  champagne  had  made  an  impression 
upon  him.  What  else  could  they  suppose  of  the 
president  of  an  Alpine  Club,  a  renowned  ascen- 
sionist,  of  whom  his  friends  spoke  only  with 
"  Ahs  !  "  and  exultant  gestures.  After  taking  him 
each  by  the  arm  with  the  respectful  firmness  of 
policemen  putting  into  a  carriage  an  overcome 
heir  to  a  title,  they  endeavoured,  by  the  help  of 
monosyllables  and  gestures,  to  rouse  his  mind  to  a 
sense  of  the  dangers  of  the  route,  the  necessity  of 
reaching  the  hut  before  nightfall,  with  threats  of 
crevasses,  cold,  avalanches.  Finally,  with  the  point 
of  their  ice-picks  they  showed  him  the  enormous 
accumulation  of  ice,  of  n^v^  not  yet  transformed 
into  glacier  rising  before  them  to  the  zenith  in 
blinding  repetition. 

But  the  worthy  Tartarin  laughed  at  all  that: 
"Ha!  va'i  !  crev^asses !  .  .  Ha!  va'i !  those  ava- 
lanches !  .  .  "  and  he  burst  out  laughing,  winked 
his  eye,  and  prodded  their  sides  with  his  elbows  to 
let  them  know  they  could  not  fool  him,  for  he  was 
in  the  secret  of  the  comedy. 

The  guides  at  last  ended  by  making  merry  with 
the  Tarasconese  songs,  and  when  they  rested  a 
moment  on  a  soHd  block  to  let  their  monsieur  get 
his  breath,  they  yodelled  in  the  Swiss  way,  though 
not  too  loudly,  for  fear  of  avalanches,  nor  very 
long,  for  time  was  getting  on.  They  knew  the 
coming  of  night  by  the  sharper  cold,  but  especially 
by  the  singular  change  in  hue  of  these  snows  and 


28o  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

ice-packs,  heaped-up,  overhanging,  which  always 
keep,  even  under  misty  skies,  a  rainbow  tinge  of 
colour  until  the  daylight  fades,  rising  higher  and 
higher  to  the  vanishing  summits,  where  the  snows 
take  on  the  livid,  spectral  tints  of  the  lunar  uni- 
verse. Pallor,  petrifaction,  silence,  death  itself. 
And  the  good  Tartarin,  so  warm,  so  living,  was 
beginning  to  lose  his  hvehness  when  the  distant 
cry  of  a  bird,  the  note  of  a  "  snow  partridge " 
brought  back  before  his  eyes  a  baked  landscape,  a 
copper-coloured  setting  sun,  and  a  band  of  Taras- 
conese  sportsmen,  mopping  their  faces,  seated  on 
their  empty  game-bags,  in  the  slender  shade  of  an 
olive-tree.    The  recollection  was  a  comfort  to  him. 

At  the  same  moment  Kaufmann  pointed  to 
something  that  looked  Hke  a  faggot  of  wood  on 
the  snow.  'Twas  the  hut.  It  seemed  as  if  they 
could  get  to  it  in  a  few  strides,  but,  in  point  of  fact, 
it  took  a  good  half-hour's  walking.  One  of  the 
guides  went  on  ahead  to  light  the  fire.  Darkness 
had  now  come  on ;  the  north  wind  rattled  on  the 
cadaverous  way,  and  Tartarin,  no  longer  paying 
attention  to  anything,  supported  by  the  stout  arm 
of  the  mountaineer,  stumbled  and  bounded  along 
without  a  dry  thread  on  him  in  spite  of  the  falling 
temperature.  All  of  a  sudden  a  flame  shot  up 
before  him,  together  with  an  appetizing  smell  of 
onion  soup. 

They  were  there. 

Nothing  can  be  more  rudimentary  than  these 
halting-places  established  on  the  mountains  by  the 
Alpine  Club   of  Switzerland.     A   single  room,  in 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jungfrau.     281 

which  an  inclined  plane  of  hard  wood  serves  as  a 
bed  and  takes  up  nearly  all  the  space,  leaving  but 
httle  for  the  stove  and  the  long  table,  screwed  to 
the  floor  like  the  benches  that  are  round  it.  The 
table  was  already  laid  ;  three  bowls,  pewter  spoons, 
the  reed-lamp  to  heat  the  coffee,  two  cans  of  Chi- 
cago preserved  meats  already  opened.  Tartarin 
thought  the  dinner  delicious  although  the  fumes  of 
the  onion  soup  infected  the  atmosphere,  and  the 
famous  spirit-lamp,  which  ought  to  have  made  its 
pint  of  coffee  in  three  minutes,  refused  to  perform 
its  functions. 

At  the  dessert  he  sang ;  that  was  his  only  means 
of  conversing  with  his  guides.  He  sang  them  the 
airs  of  his  native  land  :  La  Tarasquey  and  Les  Filles 
(VAvig7ion.  To  which  the  guides  responded  with 
local  songs  in  German  patois:  Mi  Vater  isch  en 
Appenzeller  .  .  .  aou  .  .  .  aou.  .  .  Worthy  fellows 
with  hard,  weather-beaten  features  as  if  cut  from 
the  rock,  beards  in  the  hollows  that  looked  like 
moss  and  those  clear  eyes,  used  to  great  spaces, 
like  the  eyes  of  sailors.  The  same  sensation  of 
the  sea  and  the  open,  which  he  had  felt  just  now 
on  approaching  Guggi,  Tartarin  again  felt  here,  in 
presence  of  these  mariners  of  the  glacier  in  this 
close  cabin,  low  and  smoky,  the  regular  forecastle 
of  a  ship ;  in  the  dripping  of  the  snow  from  the 
roof  as  it  melted  with  the  warmth ;  in  the  great 
gusts  of  wind,  shaking  everything,  cracking  the 
boards,  fluttering  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and 
falling  abruptly  into  vast,  unnatural  silence,  Hke 
the  end  of  the  world. 


282  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

They  had  just  finished  dinner  when  heavy  steps 
upon  the  ringing  path  and  voices  were  heard 
approaching.  Violent  blows  with  the  butt  end  of 
some  weapon  shook  the  door.  Tartarin,  greatly 
excited,  looked  at  his  guides  ...  A  nocturnal 
attack  on  these  heights !  .  .  The  blows  redoubled. 
"Who  goes  there?"  cried  the  hero,  jumping  for 
his  ice-axe ;  but  already  the  hut  was  invaded  by 
two  gigantic  Yankees,  in  white  linen  masks,  their 
clothing  soaked  with  snow  and  sweat,  and  behind 
them  guides,  porters,  a  whole  caravan,  on  its  return 
from  ascending  the  Jungfrau. 

"  You  are  welcome,  milords,"  said  Tartarin,  with 
a  liberal,  dispensing  gesture,  of  which  the  milords 
showed  not  the  slightest  need  in  making  themselves 
free  of  everything.  In  a  trice  the  table  was  sur- 
rounded, the  dishes  removed,  the  bowls  and  spoons 
rinsed  in  hot  water  for  the  use  of  the  new  arrivals 
(according  to  established  custom  in  Alpine  huts)  ; 
the  boots  of  the  milords  smoked  before  the  stove, 
while  they  themselves,  bare-footed,  their  feet 
wrapped  in  straw,  were  sprawling  at  their  ease 
before  a  fresh  onion  soup. 

Father  and  son,  these  two  Americans ;  two  red- 
haired  giants,  with  heads  of  pioneers,  hard  and  self- 
reliant.  One  of  them,  the  elder,  had  two  dilated 
eyes,  almost  white,  in  a  bloated,  sun-burned,  fis- 
sured face,  and  presently,  by  the  hesitating  way  in 
which  he  groped  for  his  bowl  and  spoon,  and  the 
care  with  which  his  son  looked  after  him,  Tartarin 
became  aware  that  this  was  the  famous  blind 
Alpinist  of  whom  he  had  been  told,  not  believing 


The  Asce7tsiou  of  the  Jungfrau,     28 


J 


the  tale,  at  the  Hotel  Bellevue;  a  celebrated 
climber  in  his  youth,  who  now,  in  spite  of  his  sixty 
years  and  his  infirmity,  was  going  over  with  his 
son  the  scenes  of  his  former  exploits.  He  had 
already  done  the  Wetterhorn  and  the  Jungfrau, 
and  was  intending  to  attack  the  Matterhorn  and  the 
Mont  Blanc,  declaring  that  the  air  upon  summits, 
that  glacial  breath  with  its  taste  of  snow,  caused 
him  inexpressible  joy,  and  a  perfect  recall  of  his 
lost  vigour. 

"  Diff^remment!'  asked  Tartarin  of  one  of  the 
porters,  for  the  Yankees  were  not  communicative, 
and  answered  only  by  a  "  yes  "  or  a  "  no  "  to  all 
his  advances  "  differemment,  inasmuch  as  he  can't 
see,  how  does  he  manage  at  the  dangerous  places?  " 

"  Oh !  he  has  got  the  mountaineer's  foot ; 
besides,  his  son  watches  over  him,  and  places  his 
heels.  .  .  And  it  is  a  fact  that  he  has  never  had  an 
accident." 

"•  All  the  more  because  accidents  in  Switzerland 
are  never  very  terrible,  qii^f "  With  a  compre- 
hending smile  to  the  puzzled  porter,  Tartarin,  more 
and  more  convinced  that  the  "  whole  thing  was 
blague^'  stretched  himself  out  on  the  plank  rolled 
in  his  blanket,  the  muffler  up  to  his  eyes,  and  went 
to  sleep,  in  spite  of  the  light,  the  noise,  the  smoke 
of  the  pipes  and  the  smell  of  the  onion  soup.  .  . 

"  Mossi6  !  .  .     Mossi^  !  .  ." 

One  of  his  guides  was  shaking  him  for  departure, 
while  the  other  poured  boiling  coffee  into  the 
bowls.     A  few  oaths  and  the   groans  of  sleepers 


284  Tartarin  07t  the  Alps, 

whom  Tartarin  crushed  on  his  way  to  the  table, 
and  then  to  the  door.  Abruptly  he  found  himself 
outside,  stung  by  the  cold,  dazzled  by  the  fairy-like 
reflections  of  the  moon  upon  that  white  expanse, 
those  motionless  congealed  cascades,  where  the 
shadow  of  the  peaks,  the  aiguilles,  the  seracs,  were 
sharply  defined  in  the  densest  black.  No  longer 
the  sparkling  chaos  of  the  afternoon,  nor  the  livid 
rising  upward  of  the  gray  tints  of  evening,  but  a 
strange  irregular  city  of  darksome  alleys,  mysteri- 
ous passages,  doubtful  corners  between  marble 
monuments  and  crumbling  ruins  —  a  dead  city, 
with  broad  desert  spaces. 

Two  o'clock !  By  walking  well  they  could  be 
at  the  top  by  mid-day.  "  ZouV  said  the  P.  C.  A., 
very  lively,  and  dashing  forward,  as  if  to  the  assault. 
But  his  guides  stopped  him.  They  must  be  roped 
for  the  dangerous  passages. 

"  Ah  !  vai,  roped  !  .  .     Very  good,  if  that  amuses 


'OU. 


Christian  Inebnit  took  the  lead,  leaving  twelve 
feet  of  rope  between  himself  and  Tartarin,  who 
was  separated  by  the  same  length  from  the  second 
guide  who  carried  the  provisions  and  the  banner. 
The  hero  kept  his  footing  better  than  he  did  the 
day  before ;  and  confidence  in  the  Company  must 
indeed  have  been  strong,  for  he  did  not  take  seri- 
ously the  difficulties  of  the  path  —  if  we  can  call 
a  path  the  terrible  ridge  of  ice  along  which  they 
now  advanced  with  precaution,  a  ridge  but  a  few 
feet  wide  and  so  slippery  that  Christian  was  forced 
to  cut  steps  with  his  Ice-axe. 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jungfrau,     285 

The  line  of  the  ridge  sparkled  between  two 
depths  of  abysses  on  either  side.  But  if  you 
think  that  Tartarin  was  frightened,  not  at  all ! 
Scarcely  did  he  feel  the  little  quiver  of  the  cuticle 
of  a  freemason  novice  when  subjected  to  his 
opening  test.  He  placed  his  feet  most  precisely 
in  the  holes  which  the  first  guide  cut  for  them, 
doing  all  that  he  saw  the  guide  do,  as  tranquil  as 
he  was  in  the  garden  of  the  baobab  when  he  prac- 
tised around  the  margin  of  the  pond,  to  the  terror 
of  the  goldfish.  At  one  place  the  ridge  became 
so  narrow  that  he  was  forced  to  sit  astride  of  it, 
and  while  they  went  slowly  forward,  helping  them- 
selves with  their  hands,  a  loud  detonation  echoed 
up,  on  their  right,  from  beneath  them.  **  Ava- 
lanche !  "  said  Inebnit,  keeping  motionless  till  the 
repercussion  of  the  echoes,  numerous,  grandiose, 
filling  the  sky,  died  away  at  last  in  a  long  roll  of 
thunder  in  the  far  distance,  where  the  final  detona- 
tion was  lost.  After  which,  silence  once  more 
covered  all  as  with  a  winding-sheet. 

The  ridge  passed,  they  went  up  a  n^v^  the 
slope  of  which  was  rather  gentle  but  its  length 
interminable.  They  had  been  climbing  nearly  an 
hour  when  a  slender  pink  line  began  to  define  the 
summits  far,  far  above  their  heads.  It  was  the 
dawn,  thus  announcing  itself.  Like  a  true  South- 
erner, enemy  to  shade,  Tartarin  trolled  out  his 
liveHest  song : 

Grand  sotileu  de  la  Provenqo 
Gai  compaire  dou  mistrau  — 


286  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

A  violent  shake  of  the  rope  from  before  and 
behind  stopped  him  short  in  the  middle  of  his 
couplet.  '*  Hush  ,  .  .  Hush  .  .  ."  said  Inebnit,  point- 
ing with  his  ice-axe  to  the  threatening  line  of 
gigantic  seracs  on  their  tottering  foundations 
which  the  slightest  jar  might  send  thundering 
down  the  steep.  But  Tartarin  knew  what  that 
meant ;  he  was  not  the  man  to  ply  with  any  such 
tales,  and  he  went  on  singing  in  a  resounding 
voice : 

Tu  qu  ^escoiilh  la  Duranqo 

Commo  unflot  <//  vin  de  Crati. 

The  guides,  seeing  that  they  could  not  silence 
their  crazy  singer,  made  a  great  detour  to  get 
away  from  the  s^racSy  and  presently  were  stopped 
by  an  enormous  crevasse,  the  glaucous  green  sides 
of  which  were  lighted,  far  down  their  depths,  by 
the  first  furtive  rays  of  the  dawn.  What  is  called 
in  Switzerland  "  a  snow  bridge  "  spanned  it ;  but 
so  slight  was  it,  so  fragile,  that  they  had  scarcely 
advanced  a  step  before  it  crumbled  away  in  a 
cloud  of  white  dust,  dragging  down  the  leading 
guide  and  Tartarin,  hanging  to  the  rope  which 
Rodolphe  Kaufmann,  the  rear  guide,  was  alone  left 
to  hold,  clinging  with  all  the  strength  of  his  moun- 
tain vigour  to  his  pick-axe,  driven  deeply  into  the 
ice.  But  although  he  was  able  to  hold  the  two 
men  suspended  in  the  gulf  he  had  not  enough 
force  to  draw  them  up  and  he  remained,  crouch- 
ing on  the  snow,  his  teeth  clenched,  his  muscles 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jungfrau.     287 

straining,  and  too  far  from  the  crevasse  to  see  what 
was  happening. 

Stunned  at  first  by  the  fall,  and  blinded  by  snow, 
Tartarin  waved  his  arms  and  legs  at  random,  like  a 
puppet  out  of  order ;  then,  drawing  himself  up  by 
means  of  the  rope,  he  hung  suspended  over  the 
abyss,  his  nose  against  its  icy  side,  which  his 
breath  polished,  in  the  attitude  of  a  plumber  in 
the  act  of  soldering  a  waste-pipe.  He  saw  the  sky 
above  him  growing  paler  and  the  stars  disappear- 
ing ;  below  he  could  fathom  the  gulf  and  its  opaque 
shadows,  from  which  rose  a  chilling  breath. 

Nevertheless,  his  first  bewilderment  over,  he 
recovered  his  self-possession  and  his  fine  good- 
humour. 

"  Hey !  up  there  !  phe  Kaufmann,  don't  leave  us 
to  mildew  here,  qn^ I  there  's  a  draught  all  round, 
and  besides,  this  cursed  rope  is  cutting  our  loins." 

Kaufmann  was  unable  to  answer;  to  have 
unclenched  his  teeth  would  have  lessened  his 
strength.     But  Inebnit  shouted  from  below: 

"  Mossid  .  .  .  Mossie  .  ,  .  ice-axe  .  .  ."  for  his  own 
had  been  lost  in  the  fall;  and,  the  heavy  imple- 
ment being  now  passed  from  the  hands  of  Tartarin 
to  those  of  the  guide  (with  difficulty,  owing  to  the 
space  that  separated  the  two  hanged  ones),  the 
mountaineer  used  it  to  make  notches  in  the  ice-wall 
before  him,  into  which  he  could  fasten  both  hands 
and  feet. 

The  weight  of  the  rope  being  thus  lessened  by  at 
least  one-half,  Rodolphe  Kaufmann,  with  carefully 
calculated  vigour  and  infinite  precautions,  began  to 


288  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

draw  up  the  president,  whose  Tarasconese  cap  ap- 
peared at  last  at  the  edge  of  the  crevasse.  Inebnit 
followed  him  in  turn  and  the  two  mountaineers 
met  again  with  that  effusion  of  brief  words  which, 
in  persons  of  limited  elocution,  follows  great  dan- 
gers. Both  were  trembling  with  their  effort,  and 
Tartarin  passed  them  his  flask  of  kirsch  to  steady 
their  legs.  He  himself  was  nimble  and  calm,  and 
while  he  shook  himself  free  of  snow  he  hummed 
his  song  under  the  nose  of  his  wondering  guides, 
beating  time  with  his  foot  to  the  measure : 

"  Brav  .  .  .  drav  .  .  .  Franzose  .  .  ."  said  Kauf- 
mann,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder;  to  which 
Tartarin  answered  with  his  fine  laugh : 

"  You  rogue  !  I  knew  very  well  there  was  no 
danger  .  .  ." 

Never  within  the  memory  of  guides  was  there 
seen  such  an  Alpinist. 

They  started  again,  climbing  perpendicularly  a 
sort  of  gigantic  wall  of  ice  some  thousand  feet 
high,  in  which  they  were  forced  to  cut  steps  as 
they  went  along,  which  took  much  time.  The  man 
of  Tarascon  began  to  feel  his  strength  give  way 
under  the  brilliant  sun  which  flooded  the  whiteness 
of  the  landscape  and  was  all  the  more  fatiguing  to 
his  eyes  because  he  had  dropped  his  green  spec- 
tacles into  the  crevasse.  Presently,  a  dreadful 
sense  of  weakness  seized  him,  that  mountain  sick- 
ness which  produces  the  same  effects  as  sea-sick- 
ness. Exhausted,  his  head  empty,  his  legs  flaccid, 
he  stumbled  and  lost  his  feet,  so  that  the  guides 
were  forced  to  grasp  him,  one  on  each  side,  sup- 


The  Ascension  of  the  Jung/raM,     289 

porting  and  hoisting  him  to  the  top  of  that  wall  of 
ice.  Scarcely  three  hundred  feet  now  separated 
them  from  the  summit  of  the  Jungfrau;  but  al- 
though the  snow  was  hard  and  bore  them,  and  the 
path  much  easier,  this  last  stage  took  an  almost 
interminable  time,  the  fatigue  and  the  suffocation 
of  the  P.  C.  A.  increasing  all  the  while. 

Suddenly  the  mountaineers  loosed  their  hold 
upon  him,  and  waving  their  caps  began  to  yodel  in 
a  transport  of  joy.  They  were  there  !  This  spot 
in  immaculate  space,  this  white  crest,  somewhat 
rounded,  was  the  goal,  and  for  that  good  Tartarin 
the  end  of  the  somnambulic  torpor  in  which  he  had 
wandered  for  an  hour  or  more. 

"  Scheideck  !  Scheideck  !  "  shouted  the  guides, 
showing  him  far,  far  below,  on  a  verdant  plateau 
emerging  from  the  mists  of  the  valley,  the  H6tel 
Bellevue  about  the  size  of  a  thimble. 

Thence  to  where  they  stood  lay  a  wondrous 
panorama,  an  ascent  of  fields  of  gilded  snow, 
oranged  by  the  sun,  or  else  of  a  deep,  cold  blue,  a 
piling  up  of  mounds  of  ice,  fantastically  structured 
into  towers,  flhhes,  aigtiilleSy  aretes,  and  gigantic 
heaps,  under  which  one  could  well  believe  that  the 
lost  megatherium  or  mastodon  lay  sleeping.  All 
the  tints  of  the  rainbow  played  there  and  met  in 
the  bed  of  vast  glaciers  rolling  down  their  immov- 
able cascades,  crossed  by  other  little  frozen  tor- 
rents, the  surfaces  of  which  the  sun's  warmth 
liquefied,  making  them  smoother  and  more  glitter- 
ing. But,  at  the  great  height  at  which  they  stood, 
all  this  sparkling  brilliance  calmed  itself;  a  light 

19 


290  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

floated,  cold,  ecliptic,  which  made  Tartarin  shudder 
even  more  than  the  sense  of  silence  and  solitude  in 
that  white  desert  with  its  mysterious  recesses. 

A  little  smoke,  with  hollow  detonations,  rose 
from  the  hotel.  They  were  seen,  a  cannon  was 
fired  in  their  honour,  and  the  thought  that  they 
were  being  looked  at,  that  his  Alpinists  were  there, 
and  the  misses,  the  illustrious  Prunes  and  Rices,  all 
with  their  opera-glasses  levelled  up  to  him,  recalled 
Tartarin  to  a  sense  of  the  grandeur  of  his  mission. 
He  tore  thee,  O  Tarasconese  banner !  from  the 
hands  of  the  guide,  waved  thee  twice  or  thrice,  and 
then,  plunging  the  handle  of  his  ice-axe  deep  into 
the  snow,  he  seated  himself  upon  the  iron  of  the 
pick,  banner  in  hand,  superb,  facing  the  public. 
And  there  —  unknown  to  himself — by  one  of 
those  spectral  reflections  frequent  upon  summits, 
taken  between  the  sun  and  the  mists  that  rose 
behind  him,  a  gigantic  Tartarin  was  outlined  on  the 
sky,  broader,  dumpier,  his  beard  bristling  beyond 
the  muffler,  like  one  of  those  Scandinavian  gods 
enthroned,  as  the  legend  has  it,  among  the  clouds. 


En  Route  for  Tarascon,  291 


XI. 

En  route  for  Tarascon.  The  Lake  of  Geneva.  Tariarin 
proposes  a  visit  to  the  dungeon  of  Bonnivard.  Short  dia- 
logue amid  the  roses.  The  whole  band  under  lock  and  key. 
The  imfortunate  Bonnivard,  Where  the  rope  made  at 
Avignon  was  found. 

As  a  result  of  the  ascension,  Tartarin's  nose 
peeled,  pimpled,  and  his  cheeks  cracked.  He  kept 
to  his  room  in  the  Hotel  Bellevue  for  five  days  — 
five  days  of  salves  and  compresses,  the  sticky  unsa- 
vouriness  and  ennui  of  which  he  endeavoured  to 
elude  by  playing  cards  with  the  delegates  or  dictat- 
ing to  them  a  long,  circumstantial  account  of  his 
expedition,  to  be  read  in  session,  before  the  Club 
of  the  Alpines  and  published  in  the  Forum. 
Then,  as  the  general  lumbago  had  disappeared 
and  nothing  remained  upon  the  noble  countenance 
of  the  P.  C.  A.  but  a  few  bhsters,  sloughs  and  chil- 
blains on  a  fine  complexion  of  Etruscan  pottery, 
the  delegation  and  its  president  set  out  for  Taras- 
con, via  Geneva. 

Let  me  omit  the  episodes  of  that  journey,  the 
alarm  cast  by  the  Southern  band  into  narrow  rail- 
way carriages,  steamers,  tables  dWiote,  by  its  songs, 
its  shouts,  its  overflowing  hilarity,  its  banner,  and 
its  alpenstocks;    for   since    the   ascension    of  the 


292  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

P.  C.  A.  they  had  all  supplied  themselves  with 
those  mountain  sticks,  on  which  the  names  of  cele- 
brated cHmbs  were  inscribed,  burnt  in,  together 
with  popular  verses. 

Montreux ! 

Here  the  delegates,  at  the  suggestion  of  their 
master,  decided  to  halt  for  two  or  three  days  in 
order  to  visit  the  famous  shores  of  Lake  Leman, 
Chillon  especially,  and  its  legendary  dungeon, 
where  the  great  patriot  Bonnivard  languished,  and 
which  Byron  and  Delacroix  have  immortalized. 

At  heart,  Tartarin  cared  little  for  Bonnivard,  his 
adventure  with  William  Tell  having  enlightened  him 
about  Swiss  legends  ;  but  in  passing  through  Inter- 
laken  he  had  heard  that  Sonia  had  gone  to 
Montreux  with  her  brother,  whose  health  was 
much  worse,  and  this  invention  of  an  historical 
pilgrimage  was  only  a  pretext  to  meet  the  young 
girl  again,  and,  who  knows?  persuade  her  perhaps 
to  follow  him  to  Tarascon. 

Let  it  be  fully  understood,  however,  that  his 
companions  believed,  with  the  best  faith  in  the 
world,  that  they  were  on  their  way  to  render  hom- 
age to  a  great  Genevese  citizen  whose  history  the 
P.  C.  A.  had  related  to  them ;  in  fact,  with  their 
native  taste  for  theatrical  manifestations  they  were 
desirous,  as  soon  as  they  landed  at  Montreux,  of 
forming  in  hne,  banner  displayed  and  marching  at 
once  to  Chillon  with  repeated  cries  of ''  Vive  Bon- 
nivard !  "  The  president  was  forced  to  calm  them : 
"  Breakfast  first,"  he  said,  ''  and  after  that  we  '11  see 
about  it."     So   they  filled   the   omnibus  of  some 


En  Route  for  Tarascon  293 

Pension  Miiller  or  other,  situated,  with  many  of  its 
kind,  close  to  the  landing. 

**  F//  that  gendarme,  how  he  looks  at  us,"  said 
Pascalon,  the  last  to  get  in,  with  the  banner,  always 
very  troublesome  to  install.  *'  True,"  said  Bravida, 
uneasily ;  *'  what  does  he  want  of  us,  that  gendarme  ? 
Why  does  he  examine  us  like  that?  " 

"  He  recognizes  me,  pardi  !  "  said  the  worthy 
Tartarin  modestly ;  and  he  smiled  upon  the  soldier 
of  the  Vaudois  police,  whose  long  blue  hooded 
coat  followed  perseveringly  behind  the  omnibus  as 
it  threaded  its  way  among  the  poplars  on  the 
shore. 

It  was  market-day  at  Montreux.  Rows  of  little 
booths  were  open  to  the  winds  of  the  lake,  display- 
ing fruit,  vegetables,  laces  very  cheap,  and  that 
white  jewellery,  looking  like  manufactured  snow  or 
pearls  of  ice,  with  which  the  Swiss  women  orna- 
ment their  costumes.  With  all  this  were  mingled 
the  bustle  of  the  little  port,  the  jostling  of  a  whole 
flotilla  of  gayly  painted  pleasure-boats,  the  trans- 
shipment of  casks  and  sacks  from  large  brigantines 
with  lateen  sails,  the  hoarse  cries,  the  bells  of  the 
steamers,  the  stir  among  the  caf^s,  the  breweries, 
the  traffic  of  the  florists  and  the  second-hand 
dealers  who  lined  the  quay.  If  a  ray  of  sun  had 
fallen  upon  the  scene,  one  might  have  thought 
one's  self  on  the  marina  of  a  Mediterranean  resort 
between  Mentone  and  Bordighera.  But  sun  was 
lacking,  and  the  Tarasconese  gazed  at  the  pretty 
landscape  through  a  watery  vapour  that  rose  from 
the   azure  lake,  climbed  the  steep  path  and  the 


294  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

pebbly  little  streets,  and  joined,  above  the  houses, 
other  clouds,  black  and  gray  that  were  clinging 
about  the  sombre  verdure  of  the  mountain,  big 
with  rain. 

*'  Coquin  de  sort!  I  'm  not  a  lacustrian,"  said 
Spiridion  Excourbanies,  wiping  the  glass  of  the 
window  to  look  at  the  perspective  of  glaciers  and 
white  vapours  that  closed  the  horizon  in  front  of 
him.  .  . 

**  Nor  I,  either,"  sighed  Pascalon,  *'  this  fog,  this 
stagnant  water  .  .  .  makes  me  want  to  cry." 

Bravida  complained  also,  in  dread  of  his  sciatic 
gout. 

Tartarin  reproved  them  sternly.  Was  it  nothing 
to  be  able  to  relate,  on  their  return,  that  they  had 
seen  the  dungeon  of  Bonnivard,  inscribed  their 
names  on  its  historic  walls  beside  the  signatures  of 
Rousseau,  Byron,  Victor  Hugo,  George  Sand, 
Eugene  Sue?  Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  his 
tirade,  the  president  interrupted  himself  and 
changed  colour.  .  .  He  had  just  caught  sight  of  a 
little  round  hat  on  a  coil  of  blond  hair.  Without 
stopping  the  omnibus,  the  pace  of  which  had 
slackened  in  going  up  hill,  he  sprang  out,  caUing 
back  to  the  stupefied  Alpinists :  "  Go  on  to  the 
hotel.  .  ." 

"  Sonia  !  .  .     Sonia  !  .  ." 

He  feared  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  catch 
her,  she  walked  so  rapidly,  the  delicate  silhouette 
of  her  shadow  falling  on  the  macadam  of  the  road. 
She  turned  at  his  call  and  waited  for  him.  "  Ah ! 
is  it   you  ? "  she  said ;    and  as  soon  as  they  had 


En  Route  for  Tarascon.  295 

shaken  hands  she  walked  on.  He  fell  into  step 
beside  her,  much  out  of  breath,  and  began  to 
excuse  himself  for  having  left  her  so  abruptly  .  .  . 
arrival  of  friends  .  .  .  necessity  of  making  the  ascen- 
sion (of  which  his  face  was  still  bearing  traces)  .  .  . 
She  listened  without  a  word,  hastening  her  pace, 
her  eyes  strained  and  fixed.  Looking  at  her  pro- 
file, she  seemed  to  him  paler,  her  features  no  longer 
soft  with  childlike  innocence,  but  hard,  a  some- 
thing resolute  on  them  which  till  now  had  existed 
only  in  her  voice  and  her  imperious  will ;  and  yet 
her  youthful  grace  was  there,  and  the  gold  of  her 
waving  hair. 

"  And  Boris,  how  is  he?"  asked  Tartarin,  rather 
discomfited  by  her  silence  and  coldness,  which 
began  to  affect  him. 

"Boris?  .  ."  she  quivered:  "  Ah!  true,  you  do 
not  know.  .  .     Well  then !    come,  come.  .  ." 

They  followed  a  country  lane  leading  past  vine- 
yards sloping  to  the  lake,  and  villas  with  gardens, 
and  elegant  terraces  laden  with  clematis,  blooming 
with  roses,  petunias,  and  myrtles  in  pots.  Now 
and  then  they  met  some  foreigner  with  haggard 
cheeks  and  melancholy  glance,  walking  slowly  and 
feebly,  like  the  many  whom  one  meets  at  Mentone 
and  Monaco ;  only,  away  down  yonder  the  sun- 
shine laps  round  all,  absorbs  all,  while  beneath  this 
lowering  cloudy  sky  suffering  is  more  apparent, 
though  the  flowers  seem  fresher. 

"  Enter,"  said  Sonia,  pushing  open  the  railed 
iron  door  of  a  white  marble  facade  on  which  were 
Russian  words  in  gilded  letters. 


296  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

At  first  Tartarin  did  not  understand  where  he 
was.  A  little  garden  was  before  him  with  gravelled 
paths  very  carefully  kept,  and  quantities  of  dimb- 
ing  roses  hanging  among  the  green  of  the  trees, 
and  bearing  great  clusters  of  white  and  yellow 
blooms,  which  filled  the  narrow  space  with  their 
fragrance  and  glow.  Among  these  garlands,  this 
lovely  efflorescence,  a  few  stones  were  standing  or 
lying  with  dates  and  names ;  the  newest  of  which 
bore  the  words,  carved  on  its  surface : 

"  Boris   Wassilief.     22  years." 

He  had  been  there  a  few  days,  dying  almost 
as  soon  as  they  arrived  at  Montreux ;  and  in  this 
cemetery  of  foreigners  the  exile  had  found  a  sort 
of  country  among  other  Russians  and  Poles  and 
Swedes,  buried  beneath  the  roses,  consumptives 
of  cold  climates  sent  to  this  Northern  Nice,  be- 
cause the  Southern  sun  would  be  for  them  too 
violent,  the  transition  too  abrupt. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  motionless  and  mute 
before  the  whiteness  of  that  new  stone  lying  on  the 
blackness  of  the  fresh-turned  earth ;  the  young 
girl,  with  her  head  bent  down,  inhaling  the  breath 
of  the  roses,  and  calming,  as  she  stood,  her  red- 
dened eyes. 

*'  Poor  little  girl !  '*  said  Tartarin  with  emotion, 
taking  in  his  strong  rough  hands  the  tips  of  Sonia's 
fingers.     "  And  you?  what  will  you  do  now?  " 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  dry  and 
shining  eyes  in  which  the  tears  no  longer  trembled. 

*'  I  ?     I  leave  within  an  hour." 


En  Route  for  Tarascon,  297 

"You  are  going?  .  ." 

"  Bolibine  is  already  in  St.  Petersburg.  .  .  Mani- 
lof  is  waiting  for  me  to  cross  the  frontier.  .  .  I 
return  to  the  work.  We  shall  be  heard  from." 
Then,  in  a  low  voice,  she  added  with  a  half-smile, 
planting  her  blue  glance  full  into  that  of  Tartarin, 
which  avoided  it :   "  He  who  loves  me  follows  me." 

Ah !  vaiy  follow  her !  The  little  fanatic  fright- 
ened him.  Besides,  this  funereal  scene  had  cooled 
his  love.  Still,  he  ought  not  to  appear  to  back 
down  like  a  scoundrel.  So,  with  his  hand  on  his 
heart  and  the  gesture  of  an  Abencerrage,  the  hero 
began :   "  You  know  me,  Sonia.  .  ." 

She  did  not  need  to  hear  more. 

*'  Gabbler !  "  she  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
And  she  walked  away,  erect  and  proud,  beneath 
the  roses,  without  once  turning  round.  .  .  Gab- 
bler !  .  .  not  one  word  more,  but  the  intonation 
was  so  contemptuous  that  the  worthy  Tartarin 
blushed  beneath  his  beard,  and  looked  about  to 
see  if  they  had  been  quite  alone  in  the  garden  so 
that  no  one  had  overheard  her. 

Among  our  Tarasconese,  fortunately,  impres- 
sions do  not  last  long.  Five  minutes  later  Tartarin 
was  going  up  the  terraces  of  Montreux  with  a  lively 
step  in  quest  of  the  Pension  Miiller  and  his  Alpin- 
ists, who  must  certainly  be  waiting  breakfast  for 
him ;  and  his  whole  person  breathed  a  relief,  a  joy 
at  getting  rid  finally  of  that  dangerous  acquaint- 
ance. As  he  walked  along  he  emphasized  with 
many   energetic    nods   the    eloquent   explanations 


298  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps.^ 

which  Sonia  would  not  wait  to  hear,  but  which  he 
gave  to  himself  mentally :  Be!  .  .  yes,  despotism 
certainly.  .  .  He  did  n't  deny  that  .  .  .  but  from 
that  to  action,  boufre  !  .  .  And  then,  to  make  it 
his  profession  to  shoot  despots !  .  .  Why,  if  all 
oppressed  peoples  applied  to  him — just  as  the 
Arabs  did  to  Bombonnel  whenever  a  panther 
roamed  round  their  village  —  he  couldn't  suffice 
for  them  all,  never ! 

At  this  moment  a  hired  carriage  coming  down 
the  hill  at  full  speed  cut  short  his  monologue.  He 
had  scarcely  time  to  jump  upon  the  sidewalk  with 
a  **  Take  care,  you  brute  !  "  when  his  cry  of  anger 
was  changed  to  one  of  stupefaction  :  "  Qiies  aco!  .  . 
Bo2i.diou  !  .  .     Not  possible  !  .  ." 

I  give  you  a  thousand  guesses  to  say  what  he 
saw  in  that  old  landau.  .  . 

The  delegation !  the  full  delegation,  Bravida, 
Pascalon,  Excourbanies,  piled  upon  the  back  seat, 
pale,  horror-stricken,  ghastly,  and  two  gendarmes 
in  front  of  them,  muskets  in  hand  !  The  sight  of  all 
those  profiles,  motionless  and  mute,  visible  through 
the  narrow  frame  of  the  carriage  window,  was  like 
a  nightmare.  Nailed  to  the  ground,  as  formerly 
on  the  ice  by  his  Kennedy  crampons,  Tartarin  was 
gazing  at  that  fantastic  vehicle  flying  along  at  a 
gallop,  followed  at  full  speed  by  a  flock  of  school- 
boys, their  atlases  swinging  on  their  backs,  when 
a  voice  shouted  in  his  ears :  "  And  here  's  the 
fourth  !  .  ."  At  the  same  time  clutched,  garotted, 
bound,  he,  too,  was  hoisted  into  a  tocati  with  gen- 
darmes, among  them  an  officer  armed  with  a  gi- 


En  Route  for  Tarascon,  299 

gantic  cavalry  sabre,  which  he  held  straight  up 
from  between  his  knees,  the  point  of  it  touching 
the  roof  of  the  vehicle. 

Tartarin  wanted  to  speak,  to  explain.  Evidently 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  .  .  He  told  his  name, 
his  nation,  demanded  his  consul,  and  named  a  seller 
of  Swiss  honey,  Ichener,  whom  he  had  met  at 
the  fair  at  Beaucaire.  Then,  on  the  persistent 
silence  of  his  captors,  he  bethought  him  that  this 
might  be  another  bit  of  machinery  in  Bompard's 
fairyland;  so,  addressing  the  officer,  he  said  with 
sly  air :  "  For  fun,  qn^l  .  .  ha !  vdi,  you  rogue,  I 
know  very  well  it  is  all  a  joke." 

''Not  another  word,  or  I  '11  gag  you,"  said  the 
officer,  rolling  terrible  eyes  as  if  he  meant  to  spit 
him  on  his  sabre. 

The  other  kept  quiet,  and  stirred  no  more,  but 
gazed  through  the  door  at  the  lake,  the  tall  moun- 
tains of  a  humid  green,  the  hotels  and  pensions 
with  variegated  roofs  and  gilded  signs  visible  for 
miles,  and  on  the  slopes,  as  at  the  Rigi,  a  coming 
and  going  of  market  and  provision  baskets,  and 
(like  the  Rigi  again)  a  comical  little  railway,  a 
dangerous  mechanical  plaything  crawling  up  the 
height  to  Glion,  and  —  to  complete  the  resemblance 
to  Regina  Montiimi  —  a  pouring,  beating  rain,  an 
exchange  of  water  and  mist  from  the  sky  to  Leman 
and  Leman  to  the  sky,  the  clouds  descending  till 
they  touched  the  waves. 

The  vehicle  crossed  a  drawbridge  between  a 
cluster  of  little  shops  of  "  chamoiseries,"  pen- 
knives, corkscrews,  pocket-combs,  etc.,  and  stopped 


300  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

in  the  courtyard  of  an  old  castle  overgrown  with 
weeds,  flanked  by  two  round  pepper-pot  towers 
with  black  balconies  guarded  by  parapets  and  sup- 
ported by  beams.  Where  was  he?  Tartarin  learned 
where  when  he  heard  the  officer  of  gendarmerie 
discussing  the  matter  with  the  concierge  of  the 
castle,  a  fat  man  in  a  Greek  cap  who  was  jangling 
a  bunch  of  rusty  keys. 

"  Solitary  confinement  .  .  .  but  I  have  n't  a  place 
for  him.  The  others  have  taken  all  .  .  .  unless  we 
put  him  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon." 

"  Yes,  put  him  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon ;  that  *s 
good  enough  for  him,"  ordered  the  captain;  and 
it  was  done  as  he  said. 

This  Castle  of  Chillon,  about  which  the  P.  C.  A. 
had  never  for  two  days  ceased  to  discourse  to  his 
dear  Alpinists,  and  in  which,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  he 
found  himself  suddenly  incarcerated  without  know- 
ing why,  is  one  of  the  most  frequented  historical 
monuments  in  Switzerland.  After  having  served 
as  a  summer  residence  to  the  Dukes  of  Savoie, 
then  as  a  state-prison,  afterwards  as  an  arsenal  for 
arms  and  munitions,  it  is  to-day  the  mere  pretext 
for  an  excursion,  like  the  Rigi  and  the  Tellsplatte. 
It  still  contains,  however,  a  post  of  gendarmerie  and 
a  ''  violon,"  that  is,  a  cell  for  drunkards  and  the 
naughty  boys  of  the  neighbourhood ;  but  they  are 
so  rare  in  the  peaceable  Canton  of  Vaud  that  the 
"  violon  "  is  always  empty  and  the  concierge  uses 
it  as  a  receptacle  to  store  his  wood  for  winter. 
Therefore  the  arrival  of  all  these  prisoners  had  put 
him  out  of  temper,  especially  at  the  thought  that 


E71  Route  for  Tarascon,  301 

he  could  no  longer  take  visitors  to  see  the  famous 
dungeon,  which  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  the 
chief  profit  of  the  place. 

Furious,  he  showed  the  way  to  Tartarin,  who 
followed  him  without  the  courage  to  make  the 
slightest  resistance.  A  few  crumbling  steps,  a 
damp  corridor  smelling  hke  a  cellar,  a  door  thick 
as  a  wall  with  enormous  hinges,  and  there  they 
were,  in  a  vast  subterranean  vault,  with  earthen 
floor  and  heavy  Roman  pillars  in  which  were  still 
the  iron  rings  to  which  prisoners  of  state  had 
been  chained.  A  dim  light  fell,  tremulous  with 
the  shimmer  of  the  lake,  through  narrow  slits  in 
the  wall,  which  scarcely  showed  more  than  a  scrap 
of  the  sky. 

"  Here  you  are  at  home,"  said  the  jailer.  **  Be 
careful  you  don't  go  to  the  farther  end:  the  pit 
is  there.  .  ." 

Tartarin  recoiled,  horrified :  — 

'•  The  pit !  Boiidiou  !  " 

**What  do  you  expect,  my  lad?  I  am  ordered 
to  put  you  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  .  .  I  have 
put  you  in  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  .  .  Now,  if  you 
have  the  means,  you  can  be  furnished  with  certain 
comforts,  for  instance,  a  mattress  and  coverlet  for 
the  night." 

"  Something  to  eat,  in  the  first  place,"  said 
Tartarin,  from  whom,  very  luckily,  they  had  not 
taken  his  purse. 

The  concierge  returned  with  a  fresh  roll,  beer, 
and  a  sausage,  greedily  devoured  by  the  new 
prisoner  of  Chillon,  fasting  since  the  night  before 


302  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

and  hollow  with  fatigue  and  emotion.  While  he 
ate  on  his  stone  bench  in  the  gleam  of  his  vent- 
hole  window,  the  jailer  examined  him  with  a  good- 
natured  eye. 

''  Faith,"  said  he,  *'  I  don't  know  what  you 
have  done,  nor  why  they  should  treat  you  so 
severely.  .  ." 

"  Nor  I  either,  coquin  de  sort  !  I  know  nothing 
about  it,"  said  Tartarin,  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  Well,  it  is  very  certain  that  you  don't  look 
like  a  bad  man,  and,  surely,  you  would  n't  hinder 
a  poor  father  of  a  family  from  earning  his  living, 
would  you  ?  .  .  Now,  see  here !  .  .  I  have  got, 
up  above  there,  a  whole  party  of  people  who  have 
come  to  see  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  .  .  If  you  would 
promise  me  to  keep  quiet,  and  not  try  to  run 
away  .  .  ." 

The  worthy  Tartarin  bound  himself  by  an  oath ; 
and  five  minutes  later  he  beheld  his  dungeon 
invaded  by  his  old  acquaintances  on  the  Rigi- 
Kulm  and  the  Tellsplatte,  that  jackass  Schwan- 
thaler,  the  ineptissimus  Astier-Rehu,  the  member 
of  the  Jockey-Club  with  his  niece  (h'm !  h'm !  .  .) 
and  all  the  travellers  on  Cook's  Circular.  Ashamed, 
dreading  to  be  recognized,  the  unfortunate  man 
concealed  himself  behind  pillars,  getting  farther 
and  farther  away  as  the  troop  of  tourists  advanced, 
preceded  by  the  concierge  and  his  homily,  delivered 
in  a  doleful  voice :  "  Here  is  where  the  unfortunate 
Bonnivard,  etc.  .  ." 

They  advanced  slowly,  retarded  by  discussions 
between  the  two  savants^  quarrelling  as  usual  and 


En  Route  for  Tarascon.  303 

ready  to  jump  at  each  other's  throats;  the  one 
waving  his  campstool,  the  other  his  travelHng-bag 
in  fantastic  attitudes,  which  the  twihght  from  the 
window-shts  lengthened  upon  the  vaulted  roof. 

By  dint  of  retreating,  Tartarin  presently  found 
himself  close  to  the  hole  of  the  pit,  a  black  pit 
open  to  the  level  of  the  soil,  emitting  the  breath 
of  ages,  malarious  and  glacial.  Frightened,  he 
stopped  short,  and  curled  himself  into  a  corner, 
his  cap  over  his  eyes.  But  the  damp  saltpetre 
of  the  walls  affected  him,  and  suddenly  a  stento- 
rian sneeze,  which  made  the  tourists  recoil,  gave 
notice  of  his  presence. 

*'  Tiens,  there  's  Bonnivard  !  .  ."  cried  the  bold 
little  Parisian  woman  in  a  Directory  hat  whom  the 
gentleman  from  the  Jockey-Club  called  his  niece. 

The  Tarasconese  hero  did  not  allow  himself  to 
be  disconcerted. 

"  They  are  really  very  curious,  these  pits,"  he 
said,  in  the  most  natural  tone  in  the  world,  as  if  he 
was  visiting  the  dungeon,  like  them,  for  pleasure ; 
and  so  saying,  he  mingled  with  the  other  travellers, 
who  smiled  at  recognizing  the  Alpinist  of  the  Rigi- 
Kulm,  the  merry  instigator  of  the  famous  ball. 

"//"/.^  mossi^  .  .  .  ballir  .  .  .  dantsir !  .  ." 

The  comical  silhouette  of  the  little  fairy  Schwan- 
thaler  rose  up  before  him  ready  to  seize  him  for 
a  country  dance.  A  fine  mood  he  was  in  now  for 
dancing !  But  not  knowing  how  to  rid  himself  of 
that  determined  little  scrap  of  a  woman,  he  offered 
his  arm  and  gallantly  showed  her  his  dungeon, 
the   ring   to  which   the  captive  was   chained,  the 


304  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

trace  of  his  steps  on  the  stone  round  that  pillar ; 
and  never,  hearing  him  converse  with  such  ease, 
did  the  good  lady  even  dream  that  he  too  was  a 
prisoner  of  state,  a  victim  of  the  injustice  and  the 
wickedness  of  men.  Terrible,  however,  was  the 
departure,  when  the  unfortunate  Bonnivard,  having 
conducted  his  partner  to  the  door,  took  leave  of 
her  with  the  smile  of  a  man  of  the  world :  "  No, 
thank  you,  v^ !  .  .  I  stay  a  few  moments  longer." 
Thereupon  he  bowed,  and  the  jailer,  who  had  his 
eye  upon  him,  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  to  the 
stupefaction  of  everybody. 

What  a  degradation  !  He  perspired  with  anguish, 
unhappy  man,  while  listening  to  the  exclamations 
of  the  tourists  as  they  walked  away.  Fortunately, 
the  anguish  was  not  renewed.  No  more  tourists 
arrived  that  day  on  account  of  the  bad  weather. 
A  terrible  wind  blew  through  the  rotten  boards, 
moans  came  up  from  the  pit  as  from  victims  ill- 
buried,  and  the  wash  of  the  lake,  swollen  with  rain, 
beat  against  the  walls  to  the  level  of  the  window- 
slits  and  spattered  its  water  upon  the  captive.  At 
intervals  the  bell  of  a  passing  steamer,  the  clack 
of  its  paddle-wheels  cut  short  the  reflections  of 
poor  Tartarin,  as  evening,  gray  and  gloomy,  fell 
into  the  dungeon  and  seemed  to  enlarge  it. 

How  explain  this  arrest,  this  imprisonment  in 
the  ill-omened  place?  Costecalde,  perhaps  .  .  . 
electioneering  manoeuvre  at  the  last  hour?  ,  .  Or, 
could  it  be  that  the  Russian  police,  warned  of  his 
very  imprudent  language,  his  liaison  with  Sonia, 
had    asked   for   his    extradition?     But  if  so,  why 


En  Route  for  Tarascon,  305 

arrest  the  delegates  ?  .  .  What  blame  could  attach 
to  those  poor  unfortunates,  whose  terror  and  despair 
he  imagined,  although  they  were  not,  Hke  him,  in 
Bonnivard's  dungeon,  beneath  those  granite  arches, 
where,  since  night  had  fallen,  roamed  monstrous 
rats,  cockroaches,  silent  spiders  with  hairy,  crooked 
legs. 

But  see  what  it  is  to  possess  a  good  conscience ! 
In  spite  of  rats,  cold,  spiders,  and  beetles,  the  great 
Tartarin  found  in  the  horror  of  that  state-prison, 
haunted  by  the  shades  of  martyrs,  the  same  solid 
and  sonorous  sleep,  mouth  open,  fists  closed, 
which  came  to  him,  between  the  abysses  and 
heaven,  in  the  hut  of  the  Alpine  Club.  He  fan- 
cied he  was  dreaming  when  he  heard  his  jailer 
say  in  the  morning:  — 

"  Get  up ;  the  prefect  of  the  district  is  here.  .  . 
He  has  come  to  examine  you.  .  ."  Adding,  with 
a  certain  respect,  "  To  bring  the  prefect  out  in  this 
way  .  .  .  why,  you  must  be  a  famous  scoundrel." 

Scoundrel !  no  —  but  you  may  look  like  one, 
after  spending  the  night  in  a  damp  and  dusty 
dungeon  without  having  a  chance  to  make  a 
toilet,  however  limited.  And  when,  in  the  former 
stable  of  the  castle  transformed  into  a  guardroom 
with  muskets  in  racks  along  the  walls,  —  when,  I  say, 
Tartarin,  after  a  reassuring  glance  at  his  Alpinists 
seated  between  two  gendarmes,  appeared  before 
the  prefect  of  the  district,  he  felt  his  disreputable 
appearance  in  presence  of  that  correct  and  solemn 
magistrate  with  the  carefully  trimmed  beard,  who 
said  to  him  sternly :  — 

20 


3o6  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

"You  call  yourself  Manilof,  do  you  not?  .  . 
Russian  subject  .  .  .  incendiary  at  St.  Petersburg, 
refugee  and  murderer  in  Switzerland." 

"  Never  in  my  life.  .  .  It  is  all  a  mistake,  an 
error.  .  ." 

**  Silence,  or  I  '11  gag  you  .  .  ."  interrupted  the 
captain. 

The  immaculate  prefect  continued :  "  To  put  an 
end  to  your  denials.  .  .     Do  you  know  this  rope?  " 

His  rope  !  coquin  de  sort !  His  rope,  woven  with 
iron,  made  at  Avignon.  He  lowered  his  head,  to 
the  stupefaction  of  the  delegates,  and  said :  **  I 
know  it." 

"  With  this  rope  a  man  has  been  hung  in  the 
Canton  of  Unterwald.  .  ." 

Tartarin,  with  a  shudder,  swore  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

"  We  shall  see  !  " 

The  Italian  tenor  was  now  introduced,  —  in  other 
words,  the  police  spy  whom  the  Nihilists  had  hung 
to  the  branch  of  an  oak-tree  on  the  Briinig,  but 
whose  life  was  miraculously  saved  by  wood- 
choppers. 

The  spy  looked  at  Tartarin.  "  That  is  not  the 
man,"  he  said ;  then  at  the  delegates,  "  Nor  they, 
either.  .  .     A  mistake  has  been  made." 

The  prefect,  furious,  turned  to  Tartarin.  "  Then, 
what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  is  what  I  ask  myself,  ve  !  .  ."  replied  the 
president,  with  the  aplomb  of  innocence. 

After  a  short  explanation  the  Alpinists  of  Taras- 
con,  restored  to  liberty,  departed  from  the  Castle  of 


Ejz  Route  for  Tarascon.  307 

Chillon,  where  none  have  ever  felt  its  oppressive 
and  romantic  melancholy  more  than  they.  They 
stopped  at  the  Pension  Miiller  to  get  their  luggage 
and  banner,  and  to  pay  for  the  breakfast  of  the 
day  before  which  they  had  not  had  time  to  eat; 
then  they  started  for  Geneva  by  the  train.  It 
rained.  Through  the  streaming  windows  they  read 
the  names  of  stations  of  aristocratic  villeggiatura : 
Clarens,  Vevey,  Lausanne ;  red  chalets,  little  gar- 
dens of  rare  shrubs  passed  them  under  a  misty 
veil,  the  branches  of  the  trees,  the  turrets  on  the 
roofs,  the  galleries  of  the  hotels  all  dripping. 

Installed  in  one  corner  of  a  long  railway  carriage, 
on  two  seats  facing  each  other,  the  Alpinists  had  a 
downcast  and  discomfited  appearance.  Bravida, 
very  sour,  complained  of  aches,  and  repeatedly 
asked  Tartarin  with  savage  irony :  "  Eh  b^ !  you  've 
seen  it  now,  that  dungeon  of  Bonnivard's  that  you 
were  so  set  on  seeing  ...  I  think  you  have  seen 
it,  qti^f"  Excourbanies,  voiceless  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  gazed  piteously  at  the  lake  which 
escorted  them  the  whole  way :  "  Water !  more 
water,  Bondiou  !  .  .  after  this,  I  '11  never  in  my  life 
take  another  bath." 

Stupefied  by  a  terror  which  still  lasts,  Pascalon, 
the  banner  between  his  legs,  sat  back  in  his  seat, 
looking  to  right  and  left  like  a  hare  fearful  of  being 
caught  again.  .  .  And  Tartarin  ?  .  .  Oh  !  he,  ever 
dignified  and  calm,  he  was  diverting  himself  by 
reading  the  Southern  newspapers,  a  package  of 
which  had  been  sent  to  the  Pension  Miiller,  all 
of  them  having  reproduced  from  the  Forum  the 


3o8  Tartarin  07i  the  Alps, 

account  of  his  ascension,  the  same  he  had  himself 
dictated,  but  enlarged,  magnified,  and  embellished 
with  ineffable  laudations.  Suddenly  the  hero  gave 
a  cry,  a  formidable  cry,  which  resounded  to  the  end 
of  the  carriage.  All  the  travellers  sat  up  excitedly, 
expecting  an  accident.  It  was  simply  an  item 
in  the  Forum,  which  Tartarin  now  read  to  his 
Alpinists :  — 

"  Listen  to  this :  '  Rumour  has  it  that  V.  P.  C.  A. 
Costecalde,  though  scarcely  recovered  from  the 
jaundice  which  kept  him  in  bed  for  some  days, 
is  about  to  start  for  the  ascension  of  Mont  Blanc ; 
to  climb  higher  than  Tartarin !  .  .'  Oh !  the  vil- 
lain. .  .  He  wants  to  ruin  the  effect  of  my  Jung- 
frau.  .  .  Well,  well !  wait  a  bit ;  I  '11  blow  you  out 
of  water,  you  and  your  mountain.  .  .  Chamounix 
is  only  a  few  hours  from  Geneva ;  I  '11  do  Mont 
Blanc  before  him  !    Will  you  come,  my  children?" 

Bravida  protested.  Outre  I  he  had  had  enough 
of  adventures. 

"  Enough  and  more  than  enough  .  .  ."  howled 
Excourbanies,  in  his  almost  extinct  voice. 

"  And  you,  Pascalon  ?  "  asked  Tartarin,  gently. 

The  pupil  dared  not  raise  his  eyes :  — 

^'  Ma-a-aster.  .  ."     He,  too,  abandoned  him ! 

*'  Very  good,"  said  the  hero,  solemnly  and  angrily. 
"  I  will  go  alone ;  all  the  honour  will  be  mine.  .  . 
Zou!  give  me  back  the  banner.  .  ." 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Ckamonix.  309 


XII. 

HStel  Baltet  at  Chamonix.  "  I  smell  garlic  f  "  The  use 
of  rope  in  Alpine  climbing.  '-^  Shake  hands. *^  A  pupil  of 
Schopenhauer.  At  the  hut  on  the  Grands-Mulets .  "  Tar- 
tarin^  I  must  speak  to  you.'''' 

Nine  o'clock  was  ringing  from  the  belfry  at 
Chamonix  of  a  cold  night  shivering  with  the 
north  wind  and  rain;  the  black  streets,  the  dark- 
ened houses  (except,  here  and  there,  the  facades 
and  courtyards  of  hotels  where  the  gas  was  still 
burning)  made  the  surroundings  still  more  gloomy 
under  the  vague  reflection  of  the  snow  of  the 
mountains,  white  as  a  planet  on  the  night  of  the 
sky. 

At  the  H6tel  Baltet,  one  of  the  best  and  most 
frequented  inns  of  this  Alpine  village,  the  numerous 
travellers  and  boarders  had  disappeared  one  by 
one,  weary  with  the  excursions  of  the  day,  until  no 
one  was  left  in  the  grand  salon  but  one  English 
traveller  playing  silently  at  backgammon  with  his 
wife,  his  innumerable  daughters,  in  brown-hoUand 
aprons  with  bibs,  engaged  in  copying  notices  of  an 
approaching  evangelical  service,  and  a  young 
Swede  sitting  before  the  fireplace,  in  which  was  a 
good  fire  of  blazing  logs.  The  latter  was  pale,  hol- 
low-cheeked, and  gazed  at  the  flame  with  a  gloomy 


3IO  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

air  as  he  drank  his  grog  of  kirsch  and  seltzer. 
From  time  to  time  some  belated  traveller  crossed 
the  salon,  with  soaked  gaiters  and  streaming  mack- 
intosh, looked  at  the  great  barometer  hanging  to 
the  wall,  tapped  it,  consulted  the  mercury  as  to  the 
weather  of  the  following  day,  and  went  off  to  bed  in 
consternation.  Not  a  word;  no  other  manifesta- 
tions of  life  than  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  the  pat- 
tering on  the  panes,  and  the  angry  roll  of  the  Arve 
under  the  arches  of  its  wooden  bridge,  a  few  yards 
distant  from  the  hotel. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  salon  opened,  a  porter 
in  a  silver-laced  coat  came  in,  carrying  valises  and 
rugs,  with  four  shivering  Alpinists  behind  him,  daz- 
zled by  the  sudden  change  from  icy  darkness  into 
warmth  and  light. 

*'  Boudiou  !  what  weather  !  .  .  " 
"  Something  to  eat,  zou  !  " 
"  Warm  the  beds,  que!  " 

They  all  talked  at  once  from  the  depths  of  their 
mufflers  and  ear-pads,  and  it  was  hard  to  know 
which  to  obey,  when  a  short  stout  man,  whom  the 
others  called  '' presidain^'  enforced  silence  by 
shouting  more  loudly  than  they. 

"  In  the  first  place,  give  me  the  visitors'  book," 
"he  ordered.  Turning  it  over  with  a  numbed  hand, 
he  read  aloud  the  names  of  all  who  had  been  at  the 
hotel  for  the  last  week :  '^ '  Doctor  Schwanthaler  and 
madame.  *  Again  !  .  .  '  Astier-Rehu  of  the  French 
Academy.  .  . '  "  He  deciphered  thus  two  or  three 
pages,  turning  pale  when  he  thought  he  saw  the 
name  he  was  in  search  of.     Then,  at  the  end,  fling- 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Ckamonix,  311 

ing  the  book  on  the  table  with  a  laugh  of  triumph, 
the. squat  man  made  a  boyish  gambol  quite  ex- 
traordinary in  one  of  his  bulky  shape  :  "  He  is  not 
here,  ve !  he  has  n't  come.  .  .  And  yet  he  must 
have  stopped  here  if  he  had.  .  .  Done  for !  Costc- 
caldc.  .  .  lagadigadeou  !  .  .  quick !  to  our  suppers, 
children !  .  .  "  And  the  worthy  Tartarin,  having 
bowed  to  the  ladies,  marched  to  the  dining-room, 
followed  by  the  famished  and  tumultuous  dele- 
gation. 

Ah,  yes  !  the  delegation,  all  of  them,  even  Bravida 
himself.  .  .  Is  it  possible?  come  now!  .  .  But  — 
just  think  what  would  be  said  of  them  down  there 
in  Tarascon,  if  they  returned  without  Tartarin? 
They  each  felt  this.  And,  at  the  moment  of  sep- 
aration in  the  station  at  Geneva,  the  buffet 
witnessed  a  pathetic  scene  of  tears,  embraces,  heart- 
rending adieus  to  the  banner ;  as  the  result  of 
which  adieus  the  whole  company  piled  itself  into 
the  landau  which  Tartarin  had  chartered  to  take 
him  to  Chamonix.  A  glorious  route,  which  they 
did  with  their  eyes  shut,  wrapped  in  their  rugs 
and  filling  the  carriage  with  sonorous  snores,  un- 
mindful of  the  wonderful  landscape,  which,  from 
Sallanches,  was  unrolling  before  them  in  a  mist  of 
blue  rain  :  ravines,  forests,  foaming  waterfalls,  with 
the  crest  of  Mont  Blanc  above  the  clouds,  visible 
or  vanishing,  according  to  the  lay  of  the  land  in  the 
valley  they  were  crossing.  Tired  of  that  sort  of 
natural  beauty,  our  Tarasconese  friends  thought 
only  of  making  up  for  the  wretched  night  they  had 
spent  behind  the  bolts  of  Chillon.     And  even  now, 


312  Tartarin  07t  the  Alps, 

at  the  farther  end  of  the  long,  deserted  dining-room 
of  the  Hotel  Baltet,  when  served  with  the  warmed- 
over  soup  and  entrees  of  the  table  d'hote^  they  ate 
voraciously,  without  saying  a  word,  eager  only  to 
get  to  bed.  All  of  a  sudden,  Excourbanies,  who 
was  swallowing  his  food  like  a  somnambulist,  came 
out  of  his  plate,  and  sniffing  the  air  about  him,  re- 
marked :     **  I  smell  garlic  !  .  .  " 

"  True,  I  smell  it,"  said  Bravida.  And  the  whole 
party,  revived  by  this  reminder  of  home,  these 
fumes  of  the  national  dishes,  which  Tartarin,  at 
least,  had  not  inhaled  for  so  long,  turned  round  in 
their  chairs  with  gluttonous  anxiety.  The  odour 
came  from  the  other  end  of  the  dining-room,  from 
a  little  room  where  some  one  was  supping  apart,  a 
personage  of  importance,  no  doubt,  for  the  white 
cap  of  the  head  cook  was  constantly  appearing  at 
the  wicket  that  opened  into  the  kitchen  as  he 
passed  to  the  girl  in  waiting  certain  little  covered 
dishes  which  she  conveyed  to  the  inner  apartment. 

*'  Some  one  from  the  South,  that's  certain,"  mur- 
mured the  gentle  Pascalon ;  and  the  president, 
becoming  ghastly  at  the  idea  of  Costecalde,  said 
commandingly :  — 

"  Go  and  see,  Spiridion  .  .  .  and  bring  us  word 
who  it  is.  .  . " 

A  loud  roar  of  laughter  came  from  that  little 
apartment  as  soon  as  the  brave  "  gong  "  entered 
it,  at  the  order  of  his  chief;  and  he  presently  re- 
turned, leading  by  the  hand  a  tall  devil  with  a  big 
nose,  a  mischievous  eye,  and  a  napkin  under  his 
chin,  like  the  gastronomic  horse. 


Hotel  Ballet  at  Chamonix.  313 

"  F//  Bompard.  .  .  " 

"  jy/  the  Impostor.  .  .  " 

**  H^ !  Gonzague.  .  .  How  are  you?" 

"  Differemment y  messieurs :  your  most  obedi- 
ent ..."  said  the  courier,  shaking  hands  with  all,  and 
sitting  down  at  the  table  of  the  Tarasconese  to  share 
with  them  a  dish  of  mushrooms  with  garlic  prepared 
by  mhe  Baltet,  who,  together  with  her  husband  had 
a  horror  of  the  cooking  for  the  table  d'hote. 

Was  it  the  national  concoction,  or  the  joy  of 
meeting  a  compatriot,  that  delightful  Bompard 
with  his  inexhaustible  imagination?  Certain  it  is 
that  weariness  and  the  desire  to  sleep  took  wings, 
champagne  was  uncorked,  and,  with  moustachios 
all  messy  with  froth,  they  laughed  and  shouted 
and  gesticulated,  clasping  one  another  round  the 
body  effusively  happy. 

"I'll  not  leave  you  now,  v^ !''  said  Bompard. 
"  My  Peruvians  have  gone.  .  .     I  am  free.  .  ." 

"Free!  .  .  Then  to-morrow  you  and  I  will 
ascend  Mont  Blanc." 

"Ah!  you  do  Mont  Blanc  to-morrow?"  said 
Bompard,  without  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes,  I  knock  out  Costecalde.  .  .  When  he  gets 
here,  uit !  .  .  No  Mont  Blanc  for  him.  .  .  You  '11 
go,  qu^,  Gonzague  ?  " 

"  I  '11  go  ...  I  '11  go  .  .  .  that  is,  if  the  weather 
permits.  .  .  The  fact  is,  that  the  mountain  is  not 
always  suitable  at  this  season." 

"  Ah !  vai !  not  suitable  indeed  !  .  ."  exclaimed 
Tartarin,  crinkling  up  his  eyes  by  a  meaning  laugh 
which  Bompard  seemed  not  to  understand. 


314  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  salon  for  our  coffee.  .  . 
We'll  consult /^r^  Baltet.  He  knows  all  about  it, 
he  's  an  old  guide  who  has  made  the  ascension 
twenty-seven  times." 

All  the  delegates  cried  out:  ''Twenty-seven 
times  !  Boiifre  !  " 

"  Bompard  always  exaggerates,"  said  the  P.  C.  A. 
severely,  but  not  without  a  touch  of  envy. 

In  the  salon  they  found  the  daughters  of  the 
minister  still  bending  over  their  notices,  while  the 
father  and  mother  were  asleep  at  their  backgam- 
mon, and  the  tall  Swede  was  stirring  his  seltzer 
grog  with  the  same  disheartened  gesture.  But  the 
invasion  of  the  Tarasconese  Alpinists,  warmed  by 
champagne,  caused,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  some 
distraction  of  mind  to  the  young  conventiclers. 
Never  had  those  charming  young  persons  seen 
coffee  taken  with  such  rolHngs  of  the  eyes  and  pan- 
tomimic action. 

'*  Sugar,  Tartarin?" 

"  Of  course  not,  commander.  .  .  You  know  very 
well.  .  .     Since  Africa !  .  ." 

"True;  excuse  me.  .  .  Te !  here  comes  M. 
Baltet." 

"  Sit  down  there,  qii^,  Monsieur  Baltet." 

"  Vive  Monsieur  Baltet !  .  .  Ha !  ha !  fen  d^ 
brutr 

Surrounded,  captured  by  all  these  men  whom  he 
had  never  seen  before  in  his  life,  pere  Baltet  smiled 
with  a  tranquil  air.  A  robust  Savoyard,  tall  and 
broad,  with  a  round  back  and  slow  walk,  a  heavy 
face,  close-shaven,  enHvened  by  two  shrewd  eyes, 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Chamonix.  315 

that  were  still  young,  contrasting  oddly  with  his 
baldness,  caused  by  chills  at  dawn  upon  the  moun- 
tain. 

"  These  gentlemen  wish  to  ascend  Mont  Blanc?  " 
he  said,  gauging  the  Tarasconese  Alpinists  with  a 
glance,  both  humble  and  sarcastic.  Tartarin  was 
about  to  reply,  but  Bompard  forestalled  him :  — 
"  Is  n't  the  season  too  far  advanced  ?  " 
**  Why,  no,"  replied  the  former  guide.  *'  Here  's 
a  Swedish  gentleman  who  goes  up  to-morrow,  and 
I  am  expecting  at  the  end  of  this  week  two  Ameri- 
can gentlemen  to  make  the  ascent;  and  one  of 
them  is  blind." 

""  I  know.     I  met  them  on  the  Guggi." 
"Ah  !  monsieur  has  been  upon  the  Guggi?" 
"  Yes,  a  week  ago,  in  doing  the  Jungfrau." 
Here  a  quiver  among  the  evangelical  conventi- 
clers ;  all  pens  stopped,  and  heads  were  raised  in 
the  direction  of  Tartarin,  who,  to  the  eyes  of  these 
English   maidens,  resolute  climbers,  expert  in  all 
sports,   acquired  considerable  authority.     He  had 
gone  up  the  Jungfrau  ! 

"  A  fine  thing  !  "  said  phe  Baltet,  considering  the 
P.  C.  A.  with  some  astonishment;  while  Pascalon, 
intimidated  by  the  ladies  and  blushing  and  stutter- 
ing, murmured  softly :  — 

"  Ma-a-aster,  tell  them  the  ...  the  ..  .  thing  .  .  . 
crevasse." 

The  president  smiled.  ''  Child  !  .  ."  he  said : 
but,  all  the  same,  he  began  the  tale  of  his  fall ;  first 
with  a  careless,  indifferent  air,  and  then  with 
startled  motions,  jigglings  at  the  end  of  the  rope 


3i6  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps. 

over  the  abyss,  hands  outstretched  and  appealing. 
The  young  ladies  quivered,  and  devoured  him  with 
those  cold  English  eyes,  those  eyes  that  open 
round. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  rose  the  voice  of 
Bompard :  — 

"  On  Chimborazo  we  never  roped  one  another  to 
cross  crevasses." 

The  delegates  looked  at  one  another.  As  a 
tarasconade  that  remark  surpassed  them  all. 

*'  Oh,  that  Bompard,  pas  mouain  .  .  ."  murmured 
Pascalon,  with  ingenuous  admiration. 

But  pere  Baltet,  taking  Chimborazo  seriously, 
protested  against  the  practice  of  not  roping.  Ac- 
cording to  him,  no  ascension  over  ice  was  possible 
without  a  rope,  a  good  rope  of  Manila  hemp  ;  then, 
if  one  sHpped,  the  others  could  hold  him. 

'*  Unless  the  rope  breaks,  Monsieur  Baltet," 
said  Tartarin,  remembering  the  catastrophe  on  the 
Matterhorn. 

But  the  landlord,  weighing  his  words,  replied : 

*'  The  rope  did  not  break  on  the  Matterhorn  .  .  . 
the  rear  guide  cut  it  with  a  blow  of  his  axe.  .  .". 

As  Tartarin  expressed  indignation,  — 

*'  Beg  pardon,  monsieur,  but  the  guide  had  a 
right  to  do  it.  .  .  He  saw  the  impossibility  of  hold- 
ing back  those  who  had  fallen,  and  he  detached 
himself  from  them  to  save  his  life,  that  of  his  son, 
and  of  the  traveller  they  were  accompanying.  .  . 
Without  his  action  seven  persons  would  have  lost 
their  lives  instead  of  four." 

Then  a  discussion  began.     Tartarin  thought  that 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Chamonix, 


3^7 


in  letting  yourself  be  roped  in  file  you  were  bound 
in  honour  to  live  and  die  together;  and  growing 
excited,  especially  in  presence  of  ladies,  he  backed 
his  opinion  by  facts  and  by  persons  present :  "  To- 
morrow, t^f  to-morrow,  in  roping  myself  to  Bom- 
pard,  it  is  not  a  simple  precaution  that  I  shall  take, 
it  is  an  oath  before  God  and  man  to  be  one  with 
my  companion  and  to  die  sooner  than  return  with- 
out him,  coquin  de  sort !  " 

"  I  accept  the  oath  for  myself,  as  for  you,  Tar- 
tarin.  .  ."  cried  Bompard  from  the  other  side  of 
the  round  table. 

Exciting  moment ! 

The  minister,  electrified,  rose,  came  to  the  hero 
and  inflicted  upon  him  a  pump-handle  exercise  of 
the  hand  that  was  truly  English.  His  wife  did  like- 
wise, then  all  the  young  ladies  continued  the  shake 
hands  with  enough  vigour  to  have  brought  water 
to  the  fifth  floor  of  the  house.  The  delegates, 
I  ought  to  mention,  were  less  enthusiastic. 

"  Eh,  be!  as  for  me,"  said  Bravida,  *'  I  am  of  M. 
Baltet's  opinion.  In  matters  of  this  kind,  each  man 
should  look  to  his  own  skin,  pardi  !  and  /  under- 
stand that  cut  of  the  axe  perfectly." 

"  You  amaze  me,  Placide,"  said  Tartarin,  se- 
verely; adding  in  a  low  voice:  "Behave  your- 
self!    England  is  watching  us." 

The  old  captain,  who  certainly  had  kept  a  root 
of  bitterness  in  his  heart  ever  since  the  excursion 
to  Chillon,  made  a  gesture  that  signified :  "  I  don't 
care  that  for  England.  .  ."  and  might  perhaps  have 
drawn  upon  himself  a  sharp  rebuke  from  the  presi- 


3i8  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

dent,  irritated  at  so  much  cynicism,  but  at  this 
moment  the  young  man  with  the  heart-broken 
look,  filled  to  the  full  with  grog  and  melancholy, 
brought  his  extremely  bad  French  into  the  con- 
versation. He  thought,  he  said,  that  the  guide 
was  right  to  cut  the  rope :  to  deliver  from  exist- 
ence those  four  unfortunate  men,  still  young,  con- 
demned to  live  for  many  years  longer;  to  send 
them,  by  a  mere  gesture,  to  peace,  to  nothingness, 
—  what  a  noble  and  generous  action ! 

Tartarin  exclaimed  against  it :  — 

"  Pooh !  young  man,  at  your  age,  to  talk  of  life 
with  such  aversion,  such  anger.  .  .  What  has  life 
done  to  you?  " 

"Nothing;  it  bores  me."  He  had  studied  phi- 
losophy at  Christiania,  and  since  then,  won  to  the 
ideas  of  Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann,  he  had 
found  existence  dreary,  inept,  chaotic.  On  the 
verge  of  suicide  he  shut  his  books,  at  the  entreaty 
of  his  parents,  and  started  to  travel,  striking 
everywhere  against  the  same  distress,  the  gloomy 
wretchedness  of  this  Hfe.  Tartarin  and  his  friends, 
he  said,  seemed  to  him  the  only  beings  content  to 
live  that  he  had  ever  met  with. 

The  worthy  P.  C.  A.  began  to  laugh.  "  It  is 
all  race,  young  man.  Everybody  feels  Hke  that 
in  Tarascon.  That 's  the  land  of  the  good  God. 
From  morning  till  night  we  laugh  and  sing,  and 
the  rest  of  the  time  we  dance  the  farandole  .  .  . 
like  this  ...///"  So  saying,  he  cut  a  double 
shuffle  with  the  grace  and  hghtness  of  a  big  cock- 
chafer trying  its  wings. 


Hotel  Ballet  at  Chamonix,  319 

But  the  delegates  had  not  the  steel  nerves  nor 
the  indefatigable  spirit  of  their  chief.  Excour- 
banies  growled  out:  **  He  '11  keep  us  here  till  mid- 
night." But  Bravida  jumped  up,  furious.  "  Let 
us  go  to  bed,  vi !  I  can't  stand  my  sciatica.  .  ." 
Tartarin  consented,  remembering  the  ascension  on 
the  morrow ;  and  the  Tarasconese,  candlesticks  in 
hand,  went  up  the  broad  staircase  of  granite  that 
led  to  the  chambers,  while  Baltet  went  to  see 
about  provisions  and  hire  the  mules  and  guides. 

"  T^ !  it  is  snowing.  .  ." 

Those  were  the  first  words  of  the  worthy  Tar- 
tarin when  he  woke  in  the  morning  and  saw  his 
windows  covered  with  frost  and  his  bedroom 
inundated  with  white  reflections.  But  when  he 
hooked  his  little  mirror  as  usual  to  the  window- 
fastening,  he  understood  his  mistake,  and  saw  that 
Mont  Blanc,  sparkling  before  him  in  the  splendid 
sunshine,  was  the  cause  of  that  light.  He  opened 
his  window  to  the  breeze  of  the  glacier,  keen  and 
refreshing,  bringing  with  it  the  sound  of  the  cattle- 
bells  as  the  herds  followed  the  long,  lowing  sound 
of  the  shepherd's  horn.  Something  fortifying, 
pastoral,  filled  the  atmosphere  such  as  he  had 
never  before  breathed  in  Switzerland. 

Below,  an  assemblage  of  guides  and  porters 
awaited  him.  The  Swede  was  already  mounted 
upon  his  mule,  and  among  the  spectators,  who 
formed  a  circle,  was  the  minister's  family,  all 
those  active  young  ladies,  their  hair  in  early 
morning  style,  who  had  come  for  another  "  shake 


320  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

hands "  with  the  hero  who  had  haunted  their 
dreams. 

** Splendid  weather!  make  haste!  .  ."  cried  the 
landlord,  whose  skull  was  gleaming  in  the  sunshine 
like  a  pebble.  But  though  Tartarin  himself  might 
hasten,  it  was  not  so  easy  a  matter  to  rouse  from 
sleep  his  dear  Alpinists,  who  intended  to  accompany 
him  as  far  as  the  Pierre-Pointue,  where  the  mule- 
path  ends.  Neither  prayers  nor  arguments  could 
persuade  the  Commander  to  get  out  of  bed.  With 
his  cotton  nightcap  over  his  ears  and  his  face  to 
the  wall,  he  contented  himself  with  replying  to 
Tartarin's  objurgations  by  a  cynical  Tarasconese 
proverb :  "  Whoso  has  the  credit  of  getting  up 
early  may  sleep  until  midday.  .  ."  As  for  Bom- 
pard,  he  kept  repeating,  the  whole  time,  ''  Ah,  vai^ 
Mont  Blanc  .  .  .  what  a  humbug.  .  ."  Nor  did 
they  rise  until  the  P.  C.  A.  had  issued  a  formal 
order. 

At  last,  however,  the  caravan  started,  and 
passed  through  the  Httle  streets  in  very  imposing 
array:  Pascalon  on  the  leading  mule,  banner  un- 
furled ;  and  last  in  file,  grave  as  a  mandarin  amid 
the  guides  and  porters  on  either  side  his  mule, 
came  the  worthy  Tartarin,  more  stupendously 
Alpinist  than  ever,  wearing  a  pair  of  new  spec- 
tacles with  smoked  and  convex  glasses,  and  his 
famous  rope  made  at  Avignon,  recovered  —  we 
know  at  what  cost. 

Very  much  looked  at,  almost  as  much  as  the 
banner,  he  was  jubilant  under  his  dignified  mask, 
enjoyed    luc    picturesqueness    of  these   Savoyard 


Hotel  Ballet  at  Chamontx.  321 

village  streets,  so  different  from  the  too  neat,  too 
varnished  Swiss  village,  looking  like  a  new  toy; 
he  enjoyed  the  contrast  of  these  hovels  scarcely 
rising  above  the  ground,  where  the  stable  fills 
the  largest  space,  with  the  grand  and  sumptuous 
hotels  five  storeys  high,  the  glittering  signs  of 
which  were  as  much  out  of  keeping  with  the 
hovels  as  the  gold-laced  cap  of  the  porter  and 
the  pumps  and  black  coats  of  the  waiters  with 
the  Savoyard  head-gear,  the  fustian  jackets,  the 
felt  hats  of  the  charcoal-burners  with  their  broad 
wings. 

On  the  square  were  landaus  with  the  horses 
taken  out,  manure-carts  side  by  side  with  travel- 
ling-carriages, and  a  troop  of  pigs  idling  in  the  sun 
before  the  post-office,  from  which  issued  an  Eng- 
lishman in  a  white  linen  cap,  with  a  package  of 
letters  and  a  copy  of  The  Times,  which  he  read 
as  he  walked  along,  before  he  opened  his  corre- 
spondence. The  cavalcade  of  the  Tarasconese 
passed  all  this,  accompanied  by  the  scuffling  of 
mules,  the  war-cry  of  Excourbanies  (to  whom  the 
sun  had  restored  the  use  of  his  gong),  the  pastoral 
chimes  on  the  neighbouring  slopes,  and  the  dash 
of  the  river,  gushing  from  the  glacier  in  a  torrent 
all  white  and  sparkling,  as  if  it  bore  upon  its  breast 
both  sun  and  snow. 

On  leaving  the  village  Bompard  rode  his  mule 
beside  that  of  the  president,  and  said  to  the  latter, 
rolling  his  eyes  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner : 
*'  Tartarin,  I  must  speak  to  you.  .  ." 

''  Presently.  .  ."  said  the  P.  C.  A.,  then  engaged 
21 


322  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

in  a  philosophical  discussion  with  the  young  Swede, 
whose  black  pessimism  he  was  endeavouring  to 
correct  by  the  marvellous  spectacle  around  them, 
those  pastures  with  great  zones  of  light  and  shade, 
those  forests  of  sombre  green  crested  with  the 
whiteness  of  the  dazzling  n^vh. 

After  two  attempts  to  speak  to  the  president, 
Bompard  was  forced  to  give  it  up.  The  Arve 
having  been  crossed  by  a  little  bridge,  the  caravan 
now  entered  one  of  those  narrow,  zigzag  roads 
among  the  firs  where  the  mules,  one  by  one,  follow 
with  their  fantastic  sabots  all  the  sinuosities  of  the 
ravines,  and  our  tourists  had  their  attention  fully 
occupied  in  keeping  their  equihbrium  by  the  help 
of  many  an  "  Outre!  .  .  Boufre I  .  .  gently,  gen- 
tly !  .  ."  with  which  they  guided  their  beasts. 

At  the  chalet  of  the  Pierre-Pointue,  where  Pas- 
calon  and  Excourbanies  were  to  wait  the  return 
of  the  excursionists,  Tartarin,  much  occupied  in 
ordering  breakfast  and  in  looking  aftef  porters  and 
guides,  still  paid  no  attention  to  Bompard's  whis- 
perings. But  —  singular  fact,  which  was  not  re- 
marked until  later  —  in  spite  of  the  fine  weather, 
the  good  wine,  and  that  purified  atmosphere  of  ten 
thousand  feet  above  sea-level,  the  breakfast  was 
melancholy.  While  they  heard  the  guides  laugh- 
ing and  making  merry  apart,  the  table  of  the  Taras- 
conese  was  silent  except  for  the  rattle  of  glasses 
and  the  clatter  of  the  heavy  plates  and  covers  on 
the  white  wood.  Was  it  the  presence  of  that 
morose  Swede,  or  the  visible  uneasiness  of  Bom- 
pard, or   some   presentiment?     At   any   rate,  the 


Hotel  Ballet  at  Chamonix.  323 

party  set  forth,  sad  as  a  battalion  without  its  band, 
towards  the  glacier  of  the  Bossons,  where  the  true 
ascent  begins. 

On  setting  foot  upon  the  ice,  Tartarin  could  not 
help  smiling  at  the  recollection  of  the  Guggi  and 
his  perfected  crampons.  What  a  difference  between 
the  neophyte  he  then  was  and  the  first-class  Alpin- 
ist he  felt  he  had  become !  Steady  on  his  heavy 
boots,  which  the  porter  of  the  hotel  had  ironed 
that  very  morning  with  four  stout  nails,  expert  in 
wielding  his  ice-axe,  he  scarcely  needed  the  hand 
of  a  guide,  and  then  less  to  support  him  than  to 
show  him  the  way.  The  smoked  glasses  moder- 
ated the  reflections  of  the  glacier,  which  a  recent 
avalanche  had  powdered  with  fresh  snow,  and 
through  which  little  spaces  of  a  glaucous  green 
showed  themselves  here  and  there,  slippery  and 
treacherous.  Very  calm,  confident  through  expe- 
rience that  there  was  not  the  slightest  danger,  Tar- 
tarin walked  along  the  verge  of  the  crevasses  with 
their  smooth,  iridescent  sides  stretching  downward 
indefinitely,  and  made  his  way  among  the  s^racSy 
solely  intent  on  keeping  up  with  the  Swedish 
student,  an  intrepid  walker,  whose  long  gaiters  with 
their  silver  buckles  marched,  thin  and  lank,  beside 
his  alpenstock,  which  looked  like  a  third  leg. 
Their  philosophical  discussion  continuing,  in  spite 
of  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  a  good  stout  voice, 
familiar  and  panting,  could  be  heard  in  the  frozen 
space,  sonorous  as  the  swell  of  a  river :  *'  You 
know  me.  Otto.  .  ." 

Bompard  all  this  time  was  undergoing  misadven- 


324  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

tures.  Firmly  convinced,  up  to  that  very  morn- 
ing, that  Tartarin  would  never  go  to  the  length  of 
his  vaunting,  and  would  no  more  ascend  Mont 
Blanc  than  he  had  the  Jungfrau,  the  luckless  cou- 
rier had  dressed  himself  as  usual,  without  nailing 
his  boots,  or  even  utilizing  his  famous  invention  for 
shoeing  the  feet  of  soldiers,  and  without  so  much 
as  his  alpenstock,  the  mountaineers  of  the  Chimbo- 
razo  never  using  them.  Armed  only  w^ith  a  little 
switch,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  blue  ribbon  of  his 
hat  and  his  ulster,  this  approach  to  the  glacier 
terrified  him,  for,  in  spite  of  his  tales,  it  is,  of 
course,  well  understood  that  the  Impostor  had 
never  in  his  life  made  an  ascension.  He  was  some- 
what reassured,  however,  on  seeing  from  the  top  of 
the  moraine  with  what  facility  Tartarin  made  his 
way  on  the  ice ;  and  he  resolved  to  follow  him  as 
far  as  the  hut  on  the  Grands-Mulets,  where  it  was 
intended  to  pass  the  night.  He  did  not  get  there 
without  difficulty.  His  first  step  laid  him  flat  on 
his  back;  at  the  second  he  fell  forward  on  his 
hands  and  knees :  "  No,  thank  you,  I  did  it  on  pur- 
pose," he  said  to  the  guides  who  endeavoured  to 
pick  him  up.  "  American  fashion,  v^l  .  .  as  they 
do  on  the  Chimborazo."  That  position  seeming  to 
be  convenient,  he  kept  it,  creeping  on  four  paws, 
his  hat  pushed  back,  and  his  ulster  sweeping  the 
ice  like  the  pelt  of  a  gray  bear;  very  calm,  withal, 
and  relating  to  those  about  him  that  in  the  Cordil- 
leras of  the  Andes  he  had  scaled  a  mountain  thirty 
thousand  feet  high.  He  did  not  say  how  much  time 
it  took  him,  but  it  must  have  been  long,  judging  by 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Chammiix,  325 

this  stage  to  the  Grands-Mulets,  where  he  arrived 
an  hour  after  Tartarin,  a  disgusting  mass  of  muddy 
snow,  with  frozen  hands  in  his  knitted  gloves. 

In  comparison  with  the  hut  on  the  Guggi,  that 
which  the  commune  of  Chamonix  has  built  on  the 
Grands-Mulets  is  really  comfortable.  When  Bom- 
pard  entered  the  kitchen,  where  a  grand  wood-fire 
was  blazing,  he  found  Tartarin  and  the  Swedish 
student  drying  their  boots,  while  the  hut-keeper,  a 
shrivelled  old  fellow  with  long  white  hair  that  fell 
in  meshes,  exhibited  the  treasures  of  his  little 
museum. 

Of  evil  augury,  this  museum  is  a  reminder  of  all 
the  catastrophes  known  to  have  taken  place  on  the 
Mont  Blanc  for  the  forty  years  that  the  old  man 
had  kept  the  inn,  and  as  he  took  them  from  their 
show-case,  he  related  the  lamentable  origin  of  each 
of  them.  .  .  This  piece  of  cloth  and  those  waist- 
coat buttons  were  the  memorial  of  a  Russian 
savant,  hurled  by  a  hurricane  upon  the  Brenva 
glacier.  .  .  These  jaw  teeth  were  all  that  remained 
of  one  of  the  guides  of  a  famous  caravan  of  eleven 
travellers  and  porters  who  disappeared  forever  in 
a  tourniente  of  snow.  .  .  In  the  fading  light  and  the 
pale  reflection  of  the  nivh  against  the  window,  the 
production  of  these  mortuary  relics,  these  monoto- 
nous recitals,  had  something  very  poignant  about 
them,  and  all  the  more  because  the  old  man  soft- 
ened his  quavering  voice  at  pathetic  items,  and 
even  shed  tears  on  displaying  a  scrap  of  green  veil 
worn  by  an  English  lady  rolled  down  by  an  ava- 
lanche in  1827. 


326  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps. 

In  vain  Tartarin  reassured  himself  by  dates, 
convinced  that  in  those  early  days  the  Company 
had  not  yet  organized  the  ascensions  without 
danger ;  this  Savoyard  vocero  oppressed  his  heart, 
and  he  went  to  the  doorway  for  a  moment  to 
breathe. 

Night  had  fallen,  engulfing  the  depths.  The 
Bossons  stood  out,  livid,  and  very  close ;  while  the 
Mont  Blanc  reared  its  summit,  still  rosy,  still 
caressed  by  the  departed  sun.  The  Southerner 
was  recovering  his  serenity  from  this  smile  of 
nature  when  the  shadow  of  Bompard  rose  behind 
him. 

"  Is  that  you,  Gonzague.  .  .  As  you  see,  I  am 
getting  the  good  of  the  air.  .  .  He  annoyed  me, 
that  old  fellow,  with  his  stories." 

"  Tartarin,"  said  Bompard,  squeezing  the  arm 
of  the  P.  C.  A.  till  he  nearly  ground  it,  *'  I  hope 
that  this  is  enough,  and  that  you  are  going  to  put 
an  end  to  this  ridiculous  expedition." 

The  great  man  opened  wide  a  pair  of  astonished 
eyes. 

"  What  stuff  are  you  talking  to  me  now?  " 

Whereupon  Bompard  made  a  terrible  picture  of 
the  thousand  deaths  that  awaited  him;  crevasses, 
avalanches,  hurricanes,  whirlwinds  .  .  . 

Tartarin  interrupted  him :  — 

"Ah!  vat,  you  rogue;  and  the  Company? 
Isn't  Mont  Blanc  managed  Hke  the  rest?" 

*' Managed?.,  the  Company?.."  said  Bom- 
pard, bewildered,  remembering  nothing  whatever 
of  his  tarasconade,  which  Tartarin   now  repeated 


Hotel  Baltet  at  Chamonix.  327 

to  him  word  for  word  —  Switzerland  a  vast  Asso- 
ciation, lease  of  the  mountains,  machinery  of  the 
crevasses ;  on  which  the  former  courier  burst  out 
laughing. 

"What!  you  really  beheved  me?  .  .  Why, 
that  was  a  gaUjade^  a  fib.  .  .  Among  us  Taras- 
conese  you  ought  surely  to  know  what  talking 
means.  .  ." 

"  Then,"  asked  Tartarin,  with  much  emotion, 
"  the  Jungfrau  was  not  prepared  f  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  And  if  the  rope  had  broken?  .  ." 

"  Ah  !   my  poor  friend.  .  ." 

The  hero  closed  his  eyes,  pale  with  retrospective 
terror,  and  for  one  moment  he  hesitated.  .  .  This 
landscape  of  polar  cataclysm,  cold,  gloomy,  yawn- 
ing with  gulfs  .  .  .  those  laments  of  the  old  hut- 
man  still  weeping  in  his  ears.  .  .  Otitre  !  what  will 
they  make  me  do  ?  .  .  Then,  suddenly,  he  thought 
of  the  folk  at  Tarascon,  of  the  banner  to  be  un- 
furled "  up  there,"  and  he  said  to  himself  that  with 
good  guides  and  a  trusty  companion  like  Bom- 
pard  .  .  .  He  '  had  done  the  Jungfrau  .  .  .  why 
should  n't  he  do  Mont  Blanc? 

Laying  his  large  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his 
friend,  he  began  in  a  virile  voice :  — 

"  Listen  to  me,  Gonzague.  .  ." 


328  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 


XIII. 

The  catastrophe. 

On  a  dark,  dark  night,  moonless,  starless,  skyless, 
on  the  trembling  whiteness  of  a  vast  ledge  of  snow, 
slowly  a  long  rope  unrolled  itself,  to  which  wer^ 
attached  in  file  certain  timorous  and  very  small 
shades,  preceded,  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  feet, 
by  a  lantern  casting  a  red  light  along  the  way. 
Blows  of  an  ice-axe  ringing  on  the  hard  snow,  the 
roll  of  the  ice  blocks  thus  detached,  alone  broke 
the  silence  of  the  n^ve^  on  which  the  steps  of  the 
caravan  made  no  sound.  From  minute  to  minute, 
a  cry,  a  smothered  groan,  the  fall  of  a  body  on  the 
ice,  and  then  immediately  a  strong  voice  sounding 
from  the  end  of  the  rope  :  *'  Go  gently,  Gonzague, 
and  don't  fall."  For  poor  Bompard  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  follow  his  friend  Tartarin  to  the  sum- 
mit of  Mont  Blanc.  Since  two  in  the  morning  — 
it  was  now  four  by  the  president's  repeater  —  the 
hapless  courier  had  groped  along,  a  galley  slave 
on  the  chain,  dragged,  pushed,  vacillating,  balk- 
ing, compelled  to  restrain  the  varied  exclamations 
extorted  from  him  by  his  mishaps,  for  an  avalanche 
was  on  the  watch,  and  the  slightest  concussion,  a 
mere  vibration  of  the  crystalline  air,  might  send 


The  Catastrophe,  329 

down   its    masses  of  snow  and  ice.     To  suffer  in 
silence  !   what  torture  to  a  native  of  Tarascon  ! 

But  the  caravan  halted.  Tartarin  asked  why.  A 
discussion  in  low  voice  was  heard;  animated 
whisperings :  "  It  is  your  companion  who  won't 
come  on,"  said  the  Swedish  student.  The  order 
of  march  was  broken  ;  the  human  chaplet  returned 
upon  itself,  and  they  found  themselves  all  at  the 
edge  of  a  vast  crevasse,  called  by  the  mountaineers 
a  roture.  Preceding  ones  they  had  crossed  by 
means  of  a  ladder,  over  which  they  crawled  on 
their  hands  and  knees;  here  the  crevasse  was 
much  wider  and  the  ice-cliff  rose  on  the  other 
side  to  a  height  of  eighty  or  a  hundred  feet.  It 
was  necessary  to  descend  to  the  bottom  of  the 
gully,  which  grew  smaller  as  it  went  down,  by 
means  of  steps  cut  in  the  ice,  and  to  reascend  in 
the  same  way  on  the  other  side.  But  Bompard 
obstinately  refused  to  do  so. 

Leaning  over  the  abyss,  which  the  shadows 
represented  as  bottomless,  he  watched  through  the 
damp  vapour  the  movements  of  the  little  lantern 
by  which  the  guides  below  were  preparing  the 
way.  Tartarin,  none  too  easy  himself,  warmed  his 
own  courage  by  exhorting  his  friend :  "  Come 
now,  Gonzague,  zou!  "  and  then  in  a  lower  voice 
coaxed  him  to  honour,  invoked  the  banner,  Taras 
con,  the  Club.  .  . 

"  Ah !  vaty  the  Club  indeed  !  .  .  I  don't  belong 
to  it,"  replied  the  other,  cynically. 

Then  Tartarin  explained  to  him  where  to  set  his 
feet,  and  assured  him  that  nothing  w?.s  easier. 


330  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

"  For  you,  perhaps,  but  not  for  me.  .  ." 
"■  But  you  said  you  had  a  habit  of  it.  .  .'* 
*'  B^ !  yes !  habit,  of  course  .  .  .  which  habit?  I 
have  so  many  .  .  .  habit  of  smoking,  sleeping  .  .  ." 
"  And  lying,  especially,"  interrupted  the  presi- 
dent. 

"Exaggerating  —  come  now!"  said  Bompard, 
not  the  least  in  the  world  annoyed. 

However,  after  much  hesitation,  the  threat  of 
leaving  him  there  all  alone  decided  him  to  go 
slowly,  deliberately,  down  that  terrible  miller's 
ladder.  .  .  The  going  up  was  more  difficult,  for 
the  other  face  was  nearly  perpendicular,  smooth 
as  marble,  and  higher  than  King  Rene's  tower  at 
Tarascon.  From  below,  the  winking  light  of  the 
guides  going  up,  looked  like  a  glow-worm  on 
the  march.  He  was  forced  to  follow,  however,  for 
the  snow  beneath  his  feet  was  not  solid,  and  gur- 
gling sounds  of  circulating  water  heard  round  a 
fissure  told  of  more  than  could  be  seen  at  the 
foot  of  that  wall  of  ice,  of  depths  that  were  send- 
ing upward  the  chilling  breath  of  subterranean 
abysses. 

"  Go  gently,  Gonzague,  for  fear  of  falling.  .  ." 
That  phrase,  which  Tartarin  uttered  with  tender 
intonations,  almost  supplicating,  borrowed  a  solemn 
signification  from  the  respective  positions  of  the 
ascensionists,  clinging  with  feet  and  hands  one 
above  the  other  to  the  wall,  bound  by  the  rope  and 
the  similarity  of  their  movements,  so  that  the  fall 
or  the  awkwardness  of  one  put  all  in  danger.  And 
what  danger !  coquin  de  sort !     It  sufficed  to  hear 


The  Catastrophe.  331 

fragments  of  the  ice-wall  bounding  and  dashing 
downward  with  the  echo  of  their  fall  to  imagine 
the  open  jaws  of  the  monster  watching  there  below 
to  snap  you  up  at  the  least  false  step. 

But  what  is  this  ?  .  .  Lo,  the  tall  Swede,  next 
above  Tartarin,  has  stopped  and  touches  with  his 
iron  heels  the  cap  of  the  P.  C.  A.  In  vain  the 
guides  called :  "  Forward  !  .  ."  And  the  presi- 
dent: "Go  on,  young  man!  .  ."  He  did  not  stir. 
Stretched  at  full  length,  clinging  to  the  ice  with 
careless  hand,  the  Swede  leaned  down,  the  glim- 
mering dawn  touching  his  scanty  beard  and  giving 
light  to  the  singular  expression  of  his  dilated  eyes, 
while  he  made  a  sign  to  Tartarin  :  — 

"What  a  fall,  hey?  if  one  let  go.  .  ." 

"  Outre!  I  should  say  so  .  .  .  you  would  drag  us 
all  down.  .  .     Go  on  !  " 

The  other  remained  motionless. 

"  A  fine  chance  to  be  done  with  life,  to  return 
into  chaos  through  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and 
roll  from  fissure  to  fissure  like  that  bit  of  ice  which 
I  kick  with  my  foot.  .  ."  And  he  leaned  over 
frightfully  to  watch  the  fragment  bounding  down- 
ward and  echoing  endlessly  in  the  blackness. 

"  Take  care !  .  ."  cried  Tartarin,  livid  with 
terror.  Then,  desperately  clinging  to  the  oozing 
wall,  he  resumed,  with  hot  ardour,  his  argument  of 
the  night  before  in  favour  of  existence.  "  There  's 
good  in  it.  .  .  What  the  deuce  !  .  .  At  your  age, 
a  fine  young  fellow  like  you.  .  .  Don't  you  believe 
in  love,  qii^  !  " 

No,  the  Swede  did  not  believe  in  it.     Ideal  love 


33 2  Tartarin  on  the  Alps. 

is  a  poet's  lie ;  the  other,  only  a  need  he  had  never 
felt.  .  . 

'*  Be  !  yes  !  b^ !  yes  !  .  .  It  is  true  poets  He,  they 
always  say  more  than  there  is ;  but  for  all  that,  she 
is  nice,  the  femellan — that's  what  they  call 
women  in  our  parts.  Besides,  there 's  children, 
pretty  little  darlings  that  look  like  us." 

"  Children  !  a  source  of  grief  Ever  since  she 
had  them  my  mother  has  done  nothing  but  weep." 

"  Listen,  Otto,  you  know  me,  my  good  friend.  .  ." 

And  with  all  the  valorous  ardour  of  his  soul 
Tartarin  exhausted  himself  to  revive  and  rub  to 
life  at  that  distance  this  victim  of  Schopenhauer  and 
of  Hartmann,  two  rascals  he  'd  like  to  catch  at  the 
corner  of  a  wood,  coquin  de  sort!  and  make  them 
pay  for  all  the  harm  they  had  done  to  youth.  .  . 

Represent  to  yourselves  during  this  discussion 
the  high  wall  of  freezing,  glaucous,  streaming  ice 
touched  by  a  pallid  ray  of  light,  and  that  string  of 
human  beings  glued  to  it  in  echelon,  with  ill- 
omened  rumblings  rising  from  the  yawning  depth, 
together  with  the  curses  of  the  guides  and  their 
threats  to  detach  and  abandon  the  travellers.  Tar- 
tarin, seeing  that  no  argument  could  convince  the 
madman  or  clear  off  his  vertigo  of  death,  suggested 
to  him  the  idea  of  throwing  himself  from  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Mont  Blanc.  .  .  That  indeed  ! 
tliat  would  be  worth  doing,  up  there  !  A  fine  end 
among  the  elements.  .  .  But  here,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  cave.  .  .  Ah !  va'i,  what  a  blunder !  .  .  And 
he  put  such  tone  into  his  words,  brusque  and  yet 
persuasive,  such  conviction,  that  the  Swede  allowed 


The  Caiastroplie,  333 

himself  to  be  conquered,  and  there  they  were,  at 
last,  one  by  one,  at  the  top  of  that  terrible  rotiire. 

They  were  now  unropcd,  and  a  halt  was  called 
for  a  bite  and  sup.  It  was  daylight;  a  cold  wan 
light  among  a  circle  of  peaks  and  shafts,  over- 
topped by  the  Mont  Blanc,  still  thousands  of  feet 
above  them.  The  guides  were  apart,  gesticulating 
and  consulting,  with  many  shakings  of  the  head. 
Seated  on  the  white  ground,  heavy  and  huddled 
up,  their  round  backs  in  their  brown  jackets,  they 
looked  like  marmots  getting  ready  to  hibernate. 
Bompard  and  Tartarin,  uneasy,  shocked,  left  the 
young  Swede  to  eat  alone,  and  came  up  to  the 
guides  just  as  their  leader  was  saying  with  a  grave 
air:  — 

"  He  is  smoking  his  pipe ;  there  's  no  denying  it." 

"Who  is  smoking  his  pipe?"  asked  Tartarin. 

"  Mont  Blanc,  monsieur;   look  there.  .  ." 

And  the  guide  pointed  to  the  extreme  top  of 
the  highest  peak,  where,  like  a  plume,  a  white 
vapour  floated  toward  Italy. 

"  Et  aiitremaiity  my  good  friend,  when  the  Mont 
Blanc  smokes  his  pipe,  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

**  It  means,  monsieur,  that  there  is  a  terrible 
wind  on  the  summit,  and  a  snow-storm  which  will 
be  down  upon  us  before  long.  And  I  tell  you, 
that's  dangerous." 

**  Let  us  go  back,"  said  Bompard,  turning  green ; 
and  Tartarin  added  :  — 

**  Yes,  yes,  certainly ;   no  false  vanity,  of  course." 

But  here  the  Swedish  student  interfered.  He 
had   paid   his  money  to  be  taken  to  the  top  of 


334  Tar  tar m  on  the  Alps, 

Mont  Blanc,  and  nothing  should  prevent  his  get- 
ting  there.  He  would  go  alone,  if  no  one  would 
accompany  him.  *'  Cowards  !  cowards  ! "  he  added, 
turning  to  the  guides ;  and  he  uttered  the  insult  in 
the  same  ghostly  voice  with  which  he  had  roused 
himself  just  before  to  suicide. 

"  You  shall  see  if  we  are  cowards.  .  .  Fasten  to 
the  rope  and  forward !  "  cried  the  head  guide. 
This  time,  it  was  Bompard  who  protested  energeti- 
cally. He  had  had  enough,  and  he  wanted  to  be 
taken  back.     Tartarin  supported  him  vigorously. 

"  You  see  very  well  that  that  young  man  Js 
insane.  .  ."  he  said,  pointing  to  the  Swede,  who 
had  already  started  with  great  strides  through  the 
heavy  snow-flakes  which  the  wind  was  beginning 
to  whirl  on  all  sides.  But  nothing  could  stop  the 
men  who  had  just  been  called  cowards.  The  mar- 
mots were  now  wide-awake  and  heroic.  Tartarin 
could  not  even  obtain  a  conductor  to  take  him 
back  with  Bompard  to  the  Grands-Mulets.  Besides, 
the  way  was  very  easy ;  three  hours'  march,  count- 
ing a  detour  of  twenty  minutes  to  get  round  that 
roture^  if  they  were  afraid  to  go  through  it  alone. 

**  Outre !  yes,  we  are  afraid  of  it  .  .  ."  said 
Bompard,  without  the  slightest  shame ;  and  the  two 
parties  separated. 

Bompard  and  the  P.  C.  A.  were  now  alone.  They 
advanced  with  caution  on  the  snowy  desert,  fas- 
tened to  a  rope:  Tartarin  first,  feeling  his  way 
gravely  with  his  ice-axe ;  filled  with  a  sense  of 
responsibility  and  finding  relief  in  it. 

''  Courage  !  keep  cool !  .  .     We  shall  get  out  of 


The  Catastrophe,  335 

It  all  right,"  he  called  to  Bompard  repeatedly.  It 
is  thus  that  an  officer  in  battle,  seeking  to  drive 
away  his  own  fear,  brandishes  his  sword  and  shouts 
to  his  men :  "  Forward  !  s.  n.  de  D.  /  .  .  all  balls 
don't  kill." 

At  last,  here  they  were  at  the  end  of  that 
horrible  crevasse.  From  there  to  the  hut  there 
were  no  great  obstacles;  but  the  wind  blew,  and 
blinded  them  with  snowy  whirlwinds.  Further 
advance  was  impossible  for  fear  of  losing  their  way. 

*'  Let  us  stop  here  for  a  moment,"  said  Tartarin. 
A  gigantic  s&ac  of  ice  offered  them  a  hollow  at  its 
base.  Into  it  they  crept,  spreading  down  the 
india-rubber  rug  of  the  president  and  opening  a 
flask  of  rum,  the  sole  article  of  provision  left  them 
by  the  guides.  A  little  warmth  and  comfort  fol- 
lowed thereon,  while  the  blows  of  the  ice-axes, 
getting  fainter  and  fainter  up  the  height,  told  them 
of  the  progress  of  the  expedition.  They  echoed 
in  the  heart  of  the  P.  C.  A.  like  a  pang  of  regret  for 
not  having  done  the  Mont  Blanc  to  the  summit. 

"  Who  '11  know  it?  "  returned  Bompard,  cynically. 
"  The  porters  kept  the  banner,  and  Chamonix 
will  believe  it  is  you." 

''You  are  right,"  cried  Tartarin,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction;   "the  honour  of  Tarascon  is  safe.  .  ." 

But  the  elements  grew  furious,  the  north-wind 
a  hurricane,  the  snow  flew  in  volumes.  Both  were 
silent,  haunted  by  sinister  ideas ;  they  remembered 
those  ill-omened  relics  in  the  glass  case  of  the  old 
inn-keeper,  his  laments,  the  legend  of  that  Ameri- 
can tourist  found  petrified  with  cold  and  hunger, 


2,2,^  Tartari7i  on  the  Alps, 

holding  in  his  stiffened  hand  a  note-book,  in  which 
his  agonies  were  written  down  even  to  the  last 
convulsion,  which  made  the  pencil  slip  and  the 
signature  uneven. 

"  Have  you  a  note-book,  Gonzague?" 

And  the  other,  comprehending  without  further 
explanation :  — 

"  Ha !  vaty  a  note-book  !  .  .  If  you  think  I  am 
going  to  let  myself  die  like  that  American !  .  . 
Quick,  let 's  get  on  !  come  out  of  this." 

"  Impossible.  .  .  At  the  first  step  we  should  be 
blown  like  straws  and  pitched  into  some  abyss." 

*'  Well  then,  we  had  better  shout ;  the  Grands- 
Mulets  is  not  far  off.  .  ."  And  Bompard,  on  his 
knees,  in  the  attitude  of  a  cow  at  pasture,  lowing, 
roared  out,  *'  Help  !   help  !  help  !  .  ." 

"  To  arms  !  "  shouted  Tartarin,  in  his  most  sonor- 
ous chest  voice,  which  the  grotto  repercussioned 
in  thunder. 

Bompard  seized  his  arm :  *'  Horrors !  the  si- 
rac !. ."  Positively  the  whole  block  was  trem- 
bling ;  another  shout  and  that  mass  of  accumulated 
icicles  would  be  down  upon  their  heads.  They 
stopped,  rigid,  motionless,  wrapped  in  a  horrid 
silence,  presently  broken  by  a  distant  rolling  sound, 
coming  nearer,  increasing,  spreading  to  the  horizon, 
and  dying  at  last  far  down,  from  gulf  to  gulf. 

"  Poor  souls  !  "  murmured  Tartarin,  thinking  of 
the  Swede  and  his  guides  caught,  no  doubt,  and 
swept  away  by  the  avalanche. 

Bompard  shook  his  head :  "We  are  scarcely  better 
off  than  they,"  he  said. 


The  Catastroplu.  2)Z7 

And  truly,  their  situation  was  alarming ;  but  they 
did  not  dare  to  stir  from  their  icy  grotto,  nor  to 
risk  even  their  heads  outside  in  the  squall. 

To  complete  the  oppression  of  their  hearts,  from 
the  depths  of  the  valley  rose  the  howling  of  a 
dog,  baying  at  death.  Suddenly  Tartarin,  with 
swollen  eyes,  his  Hps  quivering,  grasped  the  hands 
of  his  companion,  and  looking  at  him  gently, 
said :  — 

"Forgive  me,  Gonzague,  yes,  yes,  forgive  me. 
I  was  rough  to  you  just  now ;  I  treated  you  as  a 
liar.  .  ." 

"  Ah  !  va'i.     What  harm  did  that  do  me ?  " 

**  I  had  less  right  than  any  man  to  do  so,  for  I 
have  lied  a  great  deal  myself,  and  at  this  supreme 
moment  I  feel  the  need  to  open  my  heart,  to  free 
my  bosom,  to  publicly  confess  my  imposture.  .  ." 

"  Imposture,  you? " 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  friend.  .  .  In  the  first  place, 
I  never  killed  a  lion." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  Bompard, 
composedly.  "  But  why  do  you  worry  yourself  for 
such  a  trifle?  .  .  It  is  our  sun  that  does  it  ...  we 
are  born  to  lies.  .  .  F//  look  at  me.  .  .  Did  I  ever 
tell  the  truth  since  I  came  into  the  world?  As 
soon  as  I  open  my  mouth  my  South  gets  up  into 
my  head  like  a  fit.  The  people  I  talk  about  I  never 
knew ;  the  countries,  I  Ve  never  set  foot  in  them ; 
and  all  that  makes  such  a  tissue  of  inventions  that 
I  can't  unravel  it  myself  any  longer." 

"  That 's  imagination,  p^chkre  !  "  sighed  Tartarin ; 
"  we  are  liars  of  imagination." 


338  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

"  And  such  lies  never  do  any  harm  to  any  one ; 
whereas  a  malicious,  envious  man,  like  Coste- 
calde  .  .  ." 

*'  Don't  ever  speak  to  me  of  that  wretch,"  inter- 
rupted the  P.  C.  A. ;  then,  seized  with  a  sudden 
attack  of  wrath,  he  shouted  :  "  Coqinn  de  bon  sort ! 
it  is,  all  the  same,  rather  vexing.  .  ."  He  stopped, 
at  a  terrified  gesture  from  Bompard,  "  Ah !  yes, 
true  .  .  .  the  sirac;  "  and,  forced  to  lower  his  tone 
and  mutter  his  rage,  poor  Tartarin  continued  his 
imprecations  in  a  whisper,  with  a  comical  and 
amazing  dislocation  of  the  mouth,  —  ''  yes,  vexing 
to  die  in  the  flower  of  one's  age  through  the  fault 
of  a  scoundrel  who  at  this  very  moment  is  taking 
his  coffee  on  the  Promenade !  .  ." 

But  while  he  thus  fulminated,  a  clear  spot  began 
to  show  itself,  little  by  little,  in  the  sky.  It  snowed 
no  more,  it  blew  no  more;  and  blue  dashes  tore 
away  the  gray  of  the  sky.  Quick,  quick,  en  route  ; 
and  once  more  fastened  to  the  same  rope,  Tartarin, 
who  took  the  lead  as  before,  turned  round,  put  a 
finger  on  his  lips,  and  said :  — 

"  You  know,  Gonzague,  that  all  we  have  just 
been  saying  is  between  ourselves." 

"  Te  !  pardi.  .  ." 

Full  of  ardour,  they  started,  plunging  to  their 
knees  in  the  fresh  snow,  which  had  buried  in  its 
immaculate  cotton-wool  all  the  traces  of  the  cara- 
van ;  consequently  Tartarin  was  forced  to  consult 
his  compass  every  five  minutes.  But  that  Taras- 
conese  compass,  accustomed  to  warm  climates,  had 
been    numb   with   cold    ever  since   its   arrival    in 


The  Catastrophe,  339 

Switzerland.  The  needle  whirled  to  all  four  quar- 
ters, agitated,  hesitating;  therefore  they  deter- 
mined to  march  straight  before  them,  expecting 
to  see  the  black  rocks  of  the  Grands-Mulets  rise 
suddenly  from  the  uniform  silent  whiteness  of  the 
slope,  the  peaks,  the  turrets,  and  aiguilles  that  sur- 
rounded, dazzled,  and  also  terrified  them,  for  who 
knew  what  dangerous  crevasses  it  concealed  be- 
neath their  feet? 

"  Keep  cool,  Gonzague,  keep  cool !  " 

"That's  just  what  I  can't  do,"  responded  Bom- 
pard,  in  a  lamentable  voice.  And  he  moaned: 
^^ Auy  my  foot!  .  .  aie,  my  leg!  .  .  we  are  lost; 
never  shall  we  get  there.  .  ." 

They  had  walked  for  over  two  hours  when,  about 
the  middle  of  a  field  of  snow  very  difficult  to  climb, 
Bompard  called  out,  quite  terrified :  — 

"  Tartarin,  we  are  going  up  I " 

"  Eh !  parbleu  !  I  know  that  well  enough,"  re- 
turned the  P.  C.  A.,  almost  losing  his  serenity. 

"  But  according  to  my  ideas,  we  ought  to  be 
going  down." 

"^/.^  yes!  but  how  can  I  help  it?  Let's  go 
on  to  the  top,  at  any  rate;  it  may  go  down  on 
the  other  side.'* 

It  went  down  certainly  —  and  terribly,  by  a  suc- 
cession of  n^v^s  and  glaciers,  and  quite  at  the  end 
of  this  dazzling  scene  of  dangerous  whiteness  a 
little  hut  was  seen  upon  a  rock  at  a  depth  which 
seemed  to  them  unattainable.  It  was  a  haven  that 
they  must  reach  before  nightfall,  inasmuch  as  they 
had  evidently  lost  the  way  to  the  Grands-Mulets, 


340  Tartarhi  07i  the  Alps, 

but  at  what  cost !  what  efforts  !  what  dangers,  per- 
haps ! 

"  Above  all,  don't  let  go  of  me,  Gonzague, 
qu^!  .:' 

"  Nor  you  either,  Tartarin." 

They  exchanged  these  requests  without  seeing 
each  other,  being  separated  by  a  ridge  behind 
which  Tartarin  disappeared,  being  in  advance  and 
beginning  to  descend,  while  the  other  was  going 
up,  slowly  and  in  terror.  They  spoke  no  more, 
concentrating  all  their  forces,  fearful  of  a  false  step, 
a  slip.  Suddenly,  when  Bompard  was  within  three 
feet  of  the  crest,  he  heard  a  dreadful  cry  from 
his  companion,  and  at  the  same  instant,  the  rope 
tightened  with  a  violent,  irregular  jerk.  .  .  He 
tried  to  resist,  to  hold  fast  himself  and  save  his 
friend  from  the  abyss.  But  the  rope  was  old, 
no  doubt,  for  it  parted,  suddenly,  under  his 
efforts. 

''  OiLtrer' 

''  Boufre  !  " 

The  two  cries  crossed  each  other,  awful,  heart- 
rending, echoing  through  the  silence  and  solitude, 
then  a  frightful  stillness,  the  stillness  of  death  that 
nothing  more  could  trouble  in  that  waste  of  eternal 
snows. 

Towards  evening  a  man  who  vaguely  resembled 
Bompard,  a  spectre  with  its  hair  on  end,  muddy, 
soaked,  arrived  at  the  inn  of  the  Grands-Mulets, 
where  they  rubbed  him,  warmed  him,  and  put  him 
to  bed,  before  he  could  utter  other  words  than 


The  Catastrophe,  341 

these  —  choked  with  tears,  and  his  hands  raised  to 
heaven :  "  Tartarin  .  .  .  lost !  .  .  broken  rope.  .  .  " 
At  last,  however,  they  were  able  to  make  out  the 
great  misfortune  which  had  happened. 

While  the  old  hut-man  was  lamenting  and  add- 
ing another  chapter  to  the  horrors  of  the  mountain, 
hoping  for  fresh  ossuary  relics  for  his  charnel 
glass-case,  the  Swedish  youth  and  his  guides,  who 
had  returned  from  their  expedition,  set  off  in 
search  of  the  hapless  Tartarin  with  ropes,  ladders, 
in  short  a  whole  life-saving  outfit,  alas !  unavail- 
ing. .  .  Bompard,  rendered  half  idiotic,  could  give 
no  precise  indications  as  to  the  drama,  nor  as  to 
the  spot  where  it  happened.  They  found  nothing 
except,  on  the  Dome  du  Gouter,  one  piece  of  rope 
which  was  caught  in  a  cleft  of  the  ice.  But  that 
piece  of  rope,  very  singular  thing !  was  cut  at  both 
ends,  as  with  some  sharp  instrument ;  the  Cham- 
b6ry  newspapers  gave  a  facsimile  of  it,  which 
proved  the  fact. 

Finally,  after  eight  days  of  the  most  conscientious 
search,  and  when  the  conviction  became  irresistible 
that  the  poor  president  would  never  be  found,  that 
he  was  lost  beyond  recall,  the  despairing  delegates 
started  for  Tarascon,  taking  with  them  the  unhappy 
Bompard,  whose  shaken  brain  was  a  visible  result 
of  the  terrible  shock. 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  about  it,"  he  replied  when 
questioned  as  to  the  accident,  '*  never  speak  to  me 
about  it  again  !  " 

Undoubtedly  the  White  Mountain  could  reckon 
one  victim  the  more  —  and  what  a  victim  ! 


342  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 


XIV. 

Epilogue. 

A  REGION  more  impressionable  than  Tarascon 
was  never  seen  under  the  sun  of  any  land.  At 
times,  of  a  fine  festal  Sunday,  all  the  town  out, 
tambourines  a-going,  the  Promenade  swarming,  tu- 
multuous, enamelled  with  red  and  green  petticoats, 
Arlesian  neckerchiefs,  and,  on  big  multi-coloured 
posters,  the  announcement  of  wrestHng-matches  for 
men  and  lads,  races  of  Camargue  bulls,  etc.,  it  is  all- 
sufficient  for  some  wag  to  call  out:  "  Mad  dog!  " 
or  "•  Cattle  loose !  "  and  everybody  runs,  jostles, 
men  and  women  fright  themselves  out  of  their  wits, 
doors  are  locked  and  bolted,  shutters  clang  as  with 
a  storm,  and  behold  Tarascon,  deserted,  mute,  not 
a  cat,  not  a  sound,  even  the  grasshoppers  them- 
selves lying  low  and  attentive. 

This  was  its  aspect  on  a  certain  morning,  which, 
however,  was  neither  a  fete-day  nor  a  Sunday; 
the  shops  closed,  houses  dead,  squares  and  alleys 
seemingly  enlarged  by  silence  and  solitude.  Vasta 
silentio,  says  Tacitus,  describing  Rome  at  the 
funeral  of  Germanicus;  and  that  citation  of  his 
mourning  Rome  applies  all  the  better  to  Tarascon, 
because  a  funeral  service  for  the  soul  of  Tartarin 
was  being  said  at  this  moment  in  the  cathedral. 


Epilogue,  343 

where  the  population  en  masse  wept  for  its  hero, 
its  god,  its  invincible  leader  with  double  muscles, 
left  lying  among  the  glaciers  of  Mont  Blanc. 

Now,  while  the  death-knell  dropped  its  heavy 
notes  along  the  silent  streets.  Mile.  Tournatoire, 
the  doctor's  sister,  whose  ailments  kept  her  always 
at  home,  was  sitting  in  her  big  armchair  close  to 
the  window,  looking  out  into  the  street  and  listening 
to  the  bells.  The  house  of  the  Tournatoires  was  on 
the  road  to  Avignon,  very  nearly  opposite  to  that 
of  Tartarin ;  and  the  sight  of  that  illustrious  home  to 
which  its  master  would  return  no  more,  that  gar- 
den gate  forever  closed,  all,  even  the  boxes  of  the 
little  shoe-blacks  drawn  up  in  line  near  the  en- 
trance, swelled  the  heart  of  the  poor  spinster,  con- 
sumed for  more  than  thirty  years  with  a  secret 
passion  for  the  Tarasconese  hero.  Oh,  mystery  of 
the  heart  of  an  old  maid  !  It  was  her  joy  to  watch 
him  pass  at  his  regular  hours  and  to  ask  herself: 
"Where  is  he  going?  .  ."  to  observe  the  permu- 
tations of  his  toilet,  whether  he  was  clothed  as  an 
Alpinist  or  dressed  in  his  suit  of  serpent-green. 
And  now !  she  would  see  him  no  more !  even  the 
consolation  of  praying  for  his  soul  with  all  the 
other  ladies  of  the  town  was  denied  her. 

Suddenly  the  long  white  horse  head  of  Mile. 
Tournatoire  coloured  faintly;  her  faded  eyes  with 
a  pink  rim  dilated  in  a  remarkable  manner,  while 
her  thin  hand  with  its  prominent  veins  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  .  .  He  !  it  was  he,  slipping  along 
by  the  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  paved  road.  .  . 
At   first  she   thought   it  an  hallucinating  appari- 


344  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

tion.  .  .  No,  Tartarin  himself,  in  flesh  and  blood, 
only  paler,  pitiable,  ragged,  was  creeping  along  that 
wall  like  a  beggar  or  a  thief.  But  in  order  to  ex- 
plain his  furtive  presence  in  Tarascon,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  return  to  the  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Dome  du 
Gouter  at  the  precise  instant  when,  the  two  friends 
being  each  on  either  side  of  the  ridge,  Bompard 
felt  the  rope  that  bound  them  violently  jerked  as  if 
by  the  fall  of  a  body. 

In  reality,  the  rope  was  only  caught  in  a  cleft  of 
the  ice;  but  Tartarin,  feeling  the  same  jerk,  be- 
lieved, he  too,  that  his  companion  was  rolling 
down  and  dragging  him  with  him.  Then,  at  that 
supreme  moment  —  good  heavens  !  how  shall  I 
tell  it?  —  in  that  agony  of  fear,  both,  at  the  same 
instant,  forgetting  their  solemn  vow  at  the  Hotel 
Baltet,  with  the  same  impulse,  the  same  instinctive 
action,  cut  the  rope, —  Bompard  with  his  knife,  Tar- 
tarin with  his  axe ;  then,  horrified  at  their  crime, 
convinced,  each  of  them,  that  he  had  sacrificed  his 
friend,  they  fled  in  opposite  directions. 

When  the  spectre  of  Bompard  appeared  at  the 
Grands-Mulets,  that  of  Tartarin  was  arriving  at  the 
tavern  of  the  Avesailles.  How,  by  what  miracle? 
after  what  slips,  what  falls?  Mont  Blanc  alone 
could  tell.  The  poor  P.  C.  A.  remained  for  two 
days  in  a  state  of  complete  apathy,  unable  to  utter 
a  single  sound.  As  soon  as  he  was  fit  to  move 
they  took  him  down  to  Courmayeur,  the  Italian 
Chamonix.  At  the  hotel  where  he  stopped  to 
recover  his  strength,  there  was  talk  of  nothing  but 
the  frightful  catastrophe  on  Mont  Blanc,  a  perfect 


Epilogue.  345 

pendant  to  that  on  the  Matterhorn  :  another  Alpin- 
ist engulfed  by  the  breaking  of  the  rope. 

In  his  conviction  that  this  meant  Bompard, 
Tartarin,  torn  by  remorse,  dared  not  rejoin  the 
delegation,  or  return  to  his  own  town.  He  saw,  in 
advance,  on  every  lip,  in  every  eye,  the  question : 
"  Cain,  what  hast  thou  done  with  thy  brother?  .  ." 
Nevertheless,  the  lack  of  money,  deficiency  of 
linen,  the  frosts  of  September  which  were  begin- 
ning to  thin  the  hostelries,  obliged  him  to  set  out 
for  home.  After  all,  no  one  had  seen  him  commit 
the  crime.  .  .  Nothing  hindered  him  from  invent- 
ing some  tale,  no  matter  what  .  .  .  and  so  (the 
amusements  of  the  journey  lending  their  aid),  he 
began  to  feel  better.  But  when,  on  approaching 
Tarascon,  he  saw,  iridescent  beneath  the  azure 
heavens,  the  fine  sky-line  of  the  Alpines,  all,  all 
grasped  him  once  more ;  shame,  remorse,  the  fear 
of  justice,  and,  to  avoid  the  notoriety  of  arriving 
at  the  station,  he  left  the  train  at  the  preceding 
stopping-place. 

Ah !  that  beautiful  Tarasconese  highroad,  all 
white  and  creaking  with  dust,  without  other  shade 
than  the  telegraph  poles  and  their  wires,  erected 
along  the  triumphal  way  he  had  so  often  trod  at 
the  head  of  his  Alpinists  and  the  sportsmen  of 
caps.  Would  they  now  have  known  him,  he,  the 
valiant,  the  jauntily  attired,  in  his  ragged  and  filthy 
clothes,  with  that  furtive  eye  of  a  tramp  looking 
out  for  gendarmes?  The  atmosphere  was  burning, 
though  the  season  was  late,  and  the  watermelon 
which  he  bought  of  a  marketman  seemed  to  him 


34^  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

delicious  as  he  ate  it  in  the  scanty  shade  of  the 
barrow,  while  the  peasant  exhaled  his  wrath 
against  the  housekeepers  of  Tarascon,  all  of  them 
absent  from  market  that  morning  "  on  account  of  a 
black  mass  being  sung  for  a  man  of  the  town  who 
was  lost  in  a  hole,  over  there  in  the  Swiss  moun- 
tains .  .  .  Te  !  how  the  bells  rang.  .  .  You  can  hear 
'em  from  here.  .  ." 

No  longer  any  doubt.  For  Bompard  were  those 
lugubrious  chimes  of  death,  which  a  warm  breeze 
wafted  through  the  country  solitudes. 

What  an  accompaniment  of  the  return  of  the 
great  Tartarin  to  his  native  town ! 

For  one  moment,  one,  when  the  gate  of  the  little 
garden  hurriedly  opened  and  closed  behind  him 
and  Tartarin  found  himself  at  home,  when  he  saw 
the  little  paths  with  their  borders  so  neatly  raked, 
the  basin,  the  fountain,  the  gold  fish  (squirming  as 
the  gravel  creaked  beneath  his  feet),  and  the  baobab 
giant  in  its  mignonette  pot,  the  comfort  of  that 
cabbage-rabbit  burrow  wrapped  him  like  a  security 
after  all  his  dangers  and  adversities.  .  .  But  the 
bells,  those  cursed  bells,  tolled  louder  than  ever; 
their  black  heavy  notes  fell  plumb  upon  his  heart 
and  crushed  it  again.  In  funereal  fashion  they 
were  saying  to  him :  **  Cain,  what  hast  thou  done 
with  thy  brother?  Tartarin,  where  is  Bompard?  " 
Then,  without  courage  to  take  one  step,  he  sat 
down  upon  the  hot  coping  of  the  little  basin  and 
stayed  there,  broken  down,  annihilated,  to  the 
great  agitation   of  the   gold   fish. 

The   bells   no  longer   toll.     The   porch   of  the 


Epilogue,  347 

cathedral,  lately  so  resounding,  is  restored  to 
the  mutterings  of  the  beggarwoman  sitting  by  the 
door,  and  to  the  cold  immovability  of  its  stone 
saints.  The  religious  ceremony  is  over ;  all  Taras- 
con  has  gone  to  the  Club  of  the  Alpines,  where,  in 
solemn  session,  Bompard  is  to  tell  the  tale  of  the 
catastrophe  and  relate  the  last  moments  of  the 
P.  C.  A.  Besides  the  members  of  the  Club, 
many  privileged  persons  of  the  army,  clergy,  no- 
bility, and  higher  commerce  have  taken  seats  in 
the  hall  of  conference,  the  windows  of  which,  wide 
open,  allow  the  city  band,  installed  below  on  the 
portico,  to  mingle  a  few  heroic  or  plaintive  notes 
with  the  remarks  of  the  gentlemen.  An  enormous 
crowd,  pressing  around  the  musicians,  is  standing 
on  the  tips  of  its  toes  and  stretching  its  necks  in 
hopes  to  catch  a  fragment  of  what  is  said  in  session. 
But  the  windows  are  too  high,  and  no  one  would 
have  any  idea  of  what  was  going  on  without  the 
help  of  two  or  three  urchins  perched  in  the  branches 
of  a  tall  linden  who  fling  down  scraps  of  informa- 
tion as  they  are  wont  to  fling  cherries  from  a  tree : 

"  F/,  there 's  Costecalde,  trying  to  cry.  Ha  !  the 
beggar  !  he 's  got  the  armchair  now.  .  .  And  that 
poor  Bezuquet,  how  he  blows  his  nose !  and  his 
eyes  are  all  red  !  .  .  TV.'  they've  put  crape  on  the 
banner.  .  .  There 's  Bompard,  coming  to  the  table 
with  the  three  delegates.  .  .  He  has  laid  something 
down  on  the  desk.  .  .  He  's  speaking  now.  .  .  It 
must  be  fine  !     They  are  all  crying.  .  .  " 

In  truth,  the  grief  became  general  as  Bompard 
advanced  in  his  narrative.     Ah  !  memory  had  come 


34^  Tartarin  on  the  Alps, 

back  to  him  —  imagination  also.  After  picturing 
himself  and  his  illustrious  companion  alone  on  the 
summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  without  guides  (who  had 
all  refused  to  follow  them  on  account  of  the  bad 
weather),  alone  with  the  banner,  unfurled  for  five 
minutes  on  the  highest  peak  of  Europe,  he  re- 
counted, and  with  what  emotion !  the  perilous 
descent  and  fall ;  Tartarin  rolling  to  the  bottom  of 
a  crevasse,  and  he,  Bompard,  fastening  himself  to 
a  rope  two  hundred  feet  long  in  order  to  explore 
that  gulf  to  its  very  depths. 

"  More  than  twenty  times,  gentlemen  —  what  am 
I  saying?  more  than  ninety  times  I  sounded  that 
icy  abyss  without  being  able  to  reach  our  un- 
fortunate presidain,  whose  fall,  however,  I  was  able 
to  prove  by  certain  fragments  left  clinging  in  the 
crevices  of  the  ice.  .  .  " 

So  saying,  he  spread  upon  the  table-cloth  a 
fragment  of  a  tooth,  some  hairs  from  a  beard,  a 
morsel  of  waistcoat,  and  one  suspender  buckle ; 
almost  the  whole  ossuary  of  the  Grands-Mulets. 

In  presence  of  such  an  exhibition  the  sorrowful 
emotions  of  the  assembly  could  not  be  restrained  ; 
even  the  hardest  hearts,  the  partisans  of  Costecalde, 
and  the  gravest  personages  —  Cam.balalette,  the 
notary,  the  doctor,  Tournatoire  —  shed  tears  as  big 
as  the  stopper  of  a  water-bottle.  The  invited 
ladies  uttered  heart-rending  cries,  smothered,  how- 
ever, by  the  sobbing  howls  of  Excourbanies  and 
the  bleatings  of  Pascalon,  while  the  funeral  march 
of  the  drums  and  trumpets  played  a  slow  and 
lu":ubrious  bass. 


Epilogue,  349 

Then,  when  he  saw  the  emotion,  the  nervous 
excitement  at  its  height,  Bompard  ended  his  tale 
with  a  grand  gesture  of  pity  toward  the  scraps  and 
the  buckles,  as  he  said :  — 

"  And  there,  gentlemen  and  dear  fellow-citizens, 
there  is  all  that  I  recovered  of  our  illustrious  and 
beloved  president.  .  .  The  remainder  the  glacier 
will  restore  to  us  in  forty  years.  .  .  " 

He  was  about  to  explain,  for  ignorant  persons, 
the  recent  discoveries  as  to  the  slow  but  regular 
movement  of  glaciers,  when  the  squeaking  of  a 
door  opening  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  inter- 
rupted him ;  some  one  entered,  paler  than  one  of 
Home's  apparitions,  directly  in  front  of  the  orator. 

''  V^!  Tartarin!  .  .  " 

"  T^!  Gonzague!  .  .  " 

And  this  race  is  so  singular,  so  ready  to  believe 
all  improbable  tales,  all  audacious  and  easily  re- 
futed lies,  that  the  arrival  of  the  great  man  whose 
remains  were  still  lying  on  the  table  caused  only 
a  very  moderate  amazement  in  the  assembly. 

"  It  is  a  misunderstanding,  that 's  all,"  said  Tar- 
tarin, comforted,  beaming,  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  man  whom  he  thought  he  had  killed.  "  I 
did  Mont  Blanc  on  both  sides.  Went  up  one  way 
and  came  down  the  other ;  and  that  is  why  I  was 
thought  to  have  disappeared." 

He  did  not  mention  that  he  had  come  down  on 
his  back. 

"  That  damned  Bompard  !  "  said  B^zuquet ;  "  all 
the  same,  he  harrowed  us  up  with  his  tale.  .  .  " 
And  they  laughed  and  clasped  hands,  while   the 


350  Tar  tar  in  on  the  Alps, 

drums  and  trumpets,  which  they  vainly  tried  to 
silence,  went  madly  on  with  Tartarin's  funeral 
march. 

*'  Vel  Costecalde,  just  see  how  yellow  he  is !  .  .  '* 
murmured  Pascalon  to  Bravida,  pointing  to  the 
gunsmith  as  he  rose  to  yield  the  chair  to  the 
rightful  president,  whose  good  face  beamed.  Bra- 
vida, always  sententious,  said  in  a  low  voice  as  he 
looked  at  the  fallen  Costecalde  returning  to  his 
subaltern  rank :  "  '  The  fate  of  the  Abbe  Mandaire, 
from  being  the  rector  he  now  is  vicaire!  " 

And  the  session  went  on. 


THE     READABLE     BOOKS 

*' WORTHY   THE   READING   AND    THE   WORLD'S    DELIGHT." 

A  Series  of  i2mo  volumes  by  the  best  authors,  handsomely  printed  in  cl«ar 
and  legible  type,  upon  paper  of  excellent  quality,  illustrated  with  frontis- 
pieces in  photogravure  and  half  tone,  neatly  and  strongly  bound  in  cloth, 
extra,  gilt  top,  with  gold  lettering  on  back  and  sides,  issued  at  the  popular 
price  of  $i.oo  per  volume. 


I.    Adam  Bede.     By  Giorgk  Eliot. 
a.    Alice.     By  Bulwer. 

3.  Andronike.      By  Prof.    Edwin   A. 

Grosvinor. 

4.  Annals  of  the  Parish.     By  Galt. 

5.  Arthur  O'Leary.     By  Lever. 

6.  Antonia.     By  George  Sand. 

7.  Ascanio.     By  Dumas. 

11.  Bacon's  Essays. 

12.  Ball   of   Snow,   and   Sultanetta. 

By  Dumas, 

13.  Barrington.     By  Lever. 

14.  Bismarck,  Life  of.     By  Lowe. 

15.  Black,  the  Story  of  a  Dog.     By 

Dumas. 

16.  Black  Tulip.     By  Dumas. 

17.  Brigand.     By  Dumas. 

18.  Bulwer's  Dramas  and  Poems. 

19.  Bramleighs  of   Bishop's   Folly. 

By  Lever. 
ao.    Barnaby  Rudge.     By  Dickens. 

25.  Chauvelin's  Will,  and  the  Vel- 

vet Necklace.     By  Dumas. 

26.  Chevalier    d'Harmental.      By 

Dumas. 

27.  Chevalier    de     Maison    Rouge. 

By  Dumas. 

28.  Child's  History  of  England.     By 

Dickens. 
»9.    Christmas  Books.     By  Dickens. 

30.  Confessions  of  Con  Cregan.     By 

Lever. 

31.  Cosette.    (Les  Mis6rables,  Part 

2.)     By  Hugo. 

36.  Dame  de  Monsoreau.    By  Duma«. 

37.  David  Copperfield.     By  Dickens. 

38.  Devereux.     By  Bulwer. 

45.  Effie    Hetherington.       By    Bu- 

chanan. 

46.  Emma.     By  Jane  Austen. 

47.  Epictetus,  Discourses  and  En- 

chiridion of. 

48.  Ernest  Maltravers.     By  Bulwer. 

49.  Eugene  Aram;    By  Bulwer, 

54.  Fated  to  fee  Free.     By  Ingelow. 

55.  Fantine.    (Les  Mis6rables,  Part 

1.)     By  Hugo. 


56.  Felix  Holt.     By  George  Eliot. 

57.  File  No.  113.     By  Gaboriau. 

58.  Fortunes   of  Glencore.    By 

Lever. 

59.  Forty-Five.     By  Dumas. 

60.  Fromont  and  Risler.     By  Dau- 

DET. 

65.  Gladstone,  Life  of.     By  Luct. 

66.  Godolphin.     By  Bulwer. 

67.  Great    Expectations.     By  Dick- 

ens. 

71.  Harry  Lorrequer.     By  Lever. 

72.  Horoscope.     By  Dumas. 

73.  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame.  By 

HuGOo 

74.  Hypatia.     By  Kingsley. 

80.  Idyll  and  the  Epic.   (Les  Mis^- 

rables.  Part  4.)     By  Hugo. 

81.  Intellectual  Life.   By  Hamerton. 

82.  Ivanhoe.     By  Scott. 

83.  Invisible    Links.       By    Selma 

Lagerlof. 

87.  Jack  Hinton,  the   Guardsman. 

By  Lever. 

88.  Jane  Eyre.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

89.  Jean   Valjean.      (Les   Mis^ra- 

bles,  Part  5.)     By  Hugo. 

90.  John  Halifax.     By  Mulock. 

95.  Keats'  Poetical  Works. 

96.  Kings  in  Exile.     By  Daudet. 

98.  Lamb's  Essays. 

99.  Last    Days   of   Pompeii.     By 

Bulwer. 
100.    Leila,  and  Calderon.  By  Bulwer. 
loi.    Light  of  Asia.     By  Arnold. 
102.    Lorna  Doone.     By  Blackmork. 

104.  Letters    from    my    Mill.       By 

Daudet. 

105.  Lord  Kilgobbin.     By  Lever. 

106.  Lucretia.     By  Bulwer. 

no.    Man  who  Laughs.     By  Hugo. 

111.  Mansfield  Park.   By  Jane  Austen. 

112.  Marcus     Aurelius    Antoninus, 

Thoughts   of, 

1 1 3.  Marguerite  de  Valois.  By  Dumas. 

114.  Marius.  (Les  Mis^rables,  Part 

3,)      By  Hugo. 


The  Readable  Books,  Continued 


115. 

116. 

117- 

118. 
119. 


125. 
126. 


127. 
128. 
130. 
131. 
132. 

133. 
134. 

138. 

139- 

140. 

141. 
142. 

143 

144. 

145. 
146. 
150. 

ass- 
ise. 


Marriage.     By  Ferrier. 
Mauprat.     By  George  Sand. 
Mill  on  the   Floss.     By  George 

Eliot. 
Monte  Cristo,  3  vols.  By  Dumas. 
Miracles  of    Antichrist.     By 

Selma  Lagerlof, 
Monday  Tales.     By  Daudet. 
Ninety-Three.     By  Hugo. 
Northanger    Abbey.      By  Jane 

Austen. 
Nanon.     By  George  Sand 
Numa  Roumestan.    By  Daudet. 
O'Donoghue.     By  Lever. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop.    By  Dickens. 
Oliver  Twist.     By  Dickens. 
Oregon  Trail.     By  Parkman. 
Off    the    Skelligs.      By  Jean 

Ingelow. 
Persuasion.     By  Jane  Austen. 
Pickwick  Papers.     By  Dickens. 
Pilgrims   of  the    Rhine.     By 

BuLWER. 

Pilgrim's  Progress.   By  Bunyan. 
Pillar  of  Fire.     By  Ingraham. 
Pride  and  Prejudice.     By  Jans 

Austen. 
Prince  of  the  House  of  David. 

By Ingraham. 
Prince  Otto.     By  Stevenson. 
Pelham.     By  Bulwer. 
Queen's  Necklace.     By  Dumas. 
Regent's  Daughter.     By  Dumas. 
Religio  Medici.      By  Sir  Thomas 

Browne. 


157. 
158. 
165. 
166. 
167. 

168. 
169. 

170. 
171. 

172. 
173. 

180. 
181. 


183. 
184. 
185. 
186. 

187. 

188. 
190. 
191. 

192. 

199. 

200. 
201. 


Rienzi.     By  Bulwir. 

Romola.     By  George  Eliot. 

Sappho.'    By  Daudet. 

Sarah  de  Berenger.    By  Ingelow. 

Sense  and  Sensibility.     By  Jank 

Austen. 
Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lkvkr. 
Sylvandire.     By  Dumas. 
Swiss  Family  Robinson. 
Scenes   of    Clerical   Life.       By 

George  Eliot. 
Silas  Marner.     By  George  Eliot. 
Sir    Brook   Fossbrooke.     By 

Lever. 
Tale  of  Two  Cities.    By  Dickens. 
Tales   of   Mean  Streets.    By 

Morrison. 
Three  Musketeers.     By  Dumas. 
Throne  of  David.    By  Ingraham. 
Toilers  of  the  Sea.     By  Hugo. 
Treasure  Island.    By  Stevenson. 
Twenty    Years    After.       By 

Dumas. 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  and  Tar- 

tarin  on  the  Alps.    By  Daudet. 
Tony  Butler.     By  Lever. 
Vanity  Fair.     By  Thackeray. 
Verdant   Green.      By   Cuthbert 

Bede. 
Vicar's    Daughter.      By   George 

Macdonald. 
Westward  Ko  !    By  Kingslky. 
"Walton's  Angler. 
Zanoni.     By  Bulwer. 


Uniform  ivith  THE  READABLE  BOOKS:  — 
THE   ROMANCES   OF   SIENKIEWICZ.     Popular  Edition. 
With  Fire  and  Sword.     75  cents.  I    Pan  Michael.     75  cents. 

"QuoVadis."     75  cents.  |    Hania.     75  cents. 


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